Shades of Grey
by Kira
Summary: When the Enterprise's first diplomatic mission goes awry, her captain and crew discover a deception running deep on both sides, and risk everything to save those caught in the middle.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Shades of Grey

**Rating**: PG-13, T+

**Summary**: When the Enterprise's first diplomatic mission goes awry, her captain and crew discover a deception running deep on both sides, and risk everything to save those caught in the middle.

**Author's Notes**: If it weren't for Ginger Ninja, this would have never gotten finished. An amazing beta and relentless cheerleader, she held my hand through this entire thing. Also, many thanks to Jude for hashing out the finer points of the story line in ten minute intervals during my breaks at work. Shamelessly hurt/comfort with a dash of mystery, a smattering of Federation politics, and just the right amount of MotherHen!Bones.

**A Note To Readers**: This fic is complete. Parts will be posted every two days.

"_We all need a tale to tell _

_Just another list of consequences of things that we do _

_Just another hit of happenings that we have to live through _

_In and out of all the reasons, and all the "whys" and "wherefores" _

_We just want to keep on breathing."_

The Delgatos_, Keep On Breathing_

"_A man gazing on the stars is proverbially at the mercy of the puddles on the road."_

Alexander Smith, _Men of Letters_

**Chapter One.**

He never realized how much he missed the admiral until he appears on the message screen in the captain's ready room.

Jim leans back in his chair and smiles across the millions of miles between the _Enterprise_ and Starfleet Command. "_Admiral_ Pike, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Hey, there, _Captain_," he replies. "How are things aboard the _Enterprise_?"

"Fantastic, as always."

Pike laughs, a deep, amused laughter that says more about how he's recovering than words can ever convey. It's been slow-going; Jim's been keeping tabs on his mentor, checking when he can catch a moment alone. Part of him feels responsible, even though, logically (and wouldn't Spock get a kick out of _that_!), he's not. Still, if he could have gotten there faster, or taken out the drill sooner --

If Jim Kirk's learned one thing, it's that this timeline's a series of _what ifs_ he'll never be able to answer.

"You've been out there three months already, I think it's time you put some of those diplomatic courses to work."

"_Diplomatic_?" Jim frowns at the word, what it means. It makes him uncomfortable, but for a deeper reason. This is coming from a man he respects, one he doesn't want to let down. He shifts, but it's not from physical discomfort; after all they've been through, he can trust Pike. Can't he?

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" Stiff. Controlled. The smile disappears from Pike's face, but the warmth doesn't leave his eyes; he's felt somewhat responsible for this kid, ever since he made it his mission to give him a course to follow.

"You know you can always be candid with me, Jim. I'd like to think we've been through enough for that."

He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Do you really think it's a good idea to send me on a diplomatic mission? Aren't there more qualified captains out there?"

"And how do you think they _become_ qualified? You have to start somewhere, son. You have an amazing crew under you; don't think you're on your own out there."

Jim rolls his eyes. "Trust me -- I don't have _any_ privacy on this ship."

"Get used to it, it's part of your job description. You're never off-duty."

Rubbing his forehead, Jim can't help but look up at the door, where a chime's been sounding for the last minute or so. "Enter."

With a swoosh, the doors open to the light grey of the hallway and the smirking mug of Bones McCoy. "Hey, Jim, you busy?"

"Actually, yeah. Give me a minute?"

Bones nods, lets the doors slide shut.

On the screen, Pike's amused. "Helps that your best friend's aboard, doesn't it?"

"You'd think so, but he's more of a mother hen than anything else."

"Good. You need it."

Jim's never been comfortable with needing _anyone_ -- there's never been someone to lean on -- but he's been learning all sorts of things since following this stranger out of his dead-end life.

--

Bones is still outside when Jim finishes with the admiral, leaning up against the wall, arms crossed -- he always looks so _annoyed_, but not in the these-people-are-morons way Spock sports all the time. When the doors slide open, he pushes off and leans sideways, swinging an arm around to hide it behind his back.

"Official call, or were you playing with the communications equipment again?" he asks with a smirk, drawing out those southern vowels.

The fact that Bones has been drinking a bit does nothing to quell Jim's fantastic mood. In fact, it only adds to it. He walks up to his friend and claps him on the shoulder.

"Official call. We have a mission."

"A real mission, huh?" Bones follows Jim's lead away from the ready room and towards the bridge, then realizes where they're going and stashes something around the corner before they cross the threshold. "Oh, wow, you're serious."

"You think I'd joke about something like this, after the last two weeks we've had?" Jim calls over his shoulder, stepping onto the raised command platform. "We all need a little action."

"You should know," mutters Bones, following him.

"I heard that."

"You were meant to." As Jim sits, Bones stands beside him. "So, what does Starfleet Command have us doing? Escorting refugees? Saving the known universe? Oh, wait, we've done that one already."

"We'll be assisting negotiations on Katash."

"_Negotiations_? They're giving _you_ a diplomatic mission?" Bones shakes his head. "Are they insane?"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Bones."

"Don't get me wrong, Jim, I think you're a fine captain and all, but you're not exactly the most tactful guy."

"Tact?" Jim asks, looking up. "I've got loads of tact."

"That remains to be seen."

"Mr. Sulu, plot a course for the Viridian Sector, warp 3." He's on to other things, his attention zipping from Bones to the mission at hand and back again. "So, what did you want?" Jim asks.

"Oh, nothing that can't wait," teases Bones. "Just that Scotty managed to get some -- "

Chekov

"Don't even finish, I'm there." He stands quickly and moves to leave, then stops, remembering. "How long until we reach our destination?"

"Five hours, thirty-one minutes, and seventeen seconds, Keptin," answers Chekov.

"Good. See you then."

--

An hour in, Scotty, Bones, and Jim are joined by Uhura, her long dark hair hanging loose down her back over a plain uniform undershirt. She moves gracefully yet in time with the soft music permeating the recreation deck, swaying her way around tables to slide into an empty seat beside Scotty.

The Scotsman gives her a wide grin and holds out one of the brightly-colored bottles. "Ey, lady, have a drink."

She grabs the bottle from him and takes a long swig; the men at the table hold their breath for a few seconds, waiting.

Her face falls and blanches before Uhura lets out a loud, honking cough, hand coming up to cover her mouth as her so-called companions let out whooping laughter.

"Bit strong for yea?" laughs Scotty.

"Sorry, Uhura, we should have warned you," Bones comments, sliding a glass of water across the table. She waves it away, lets out a laugh of her own.

"Well, don't stop on my account," she smiles.

"We were just talking about possibly locking Jim in his quarters for tomorrow's mission in the interest of galactic relations," announces Bones.

Jim takes a swig of beer before answering. "I think _you_ were discussing it. Scotty's totally on my side, aren't you, man?"

"Jus' so long as you find me somethin' exotic, Cap'in, I'll support you in any off-world adventure." And he tips his cup from his head in a sloppy salute.

But the conversation's got Uhura curious, and instead of teasing Jim or rolling her eyes at how cheap Scotty is, she leans in, deep brown eyes serious. "What mission?"

"You'll just have to wait for the brief like everyone else, _Lt_. Uhura," says Jim. But his eyes have that sparkle of mischief in them she remembers from that first night in the bar, when he seemed so aimless yet determined to _win_ when presented with a problem. She'd never tell him, but it's something she's always admired in him, and always _hopes_ he won't fail.

But, in this case, her lips are always sealed.

--

Bones notices the single beer bottle sitting in front of his friend, how there's still a third of the amber liquid remaining in the bottom of the old-style glass, and drags tired eyes up to his friend's face. Still bright and sharp, Jim lingers on the edge of the conversation instead of the center, laughing loudly when Uhura makes a particularly off-color joke. At his expense. But then, he wouldn't be Jim Kirk if he didn't let comments like that roll off his back. Ego the size of a planet, nothing negative can get through _that_ atmosphere.

Only a little more escapes the bottle by the time Uhura yawns and heads up. And a sip or two when Scotty's so drunk, he can barely walk straight when he tries to make it to the door. Jim downs the rest of it during a long pause in the conversation, a comfortable silence between friends.

"Well," Jim announces, slamming the bottle down on the table. "I'm gonna catch some sleep before we arrive."

"Did I hear that right? You? Being reasonable?" He knows how it sounds, that bite in his tone that helped drive his wife away, but can't help it, never has been able to.

Jim shrugs. "She brings it out in me."

"She?"

He rolls his eyes and stands, stretching his arms above his head, motioning with his hands at the ship around them.

"Of course."

"You want to go with tomorrow?" Jim finally asks, leaning on the back of the chair. There's something expectant in his blue eyes, that same sparkle that drew Bones from the dorms or labs back at the Academy and into the bars for a loud night of drinking and hitting on girls. The very idea that Jim compares that to a diplomatic mission on a low-contact planet just makes him question this newfound maturity.

"Is there a reason for me to go?"

"Nope."

Bones leans back and seems to consider this for a moment, then shakes his head. "Naw, I think I'll stay here."

"On the ship? In _space_?"

"Better than being dematerialized and shot _through space_."

Jim rolls his eyes. "It's perfectly safe."

"Oh, _sure_. Just ask Admiral Archer's dog."

--

"This is _so cool_."

Having just materialized on a hillside has no effect on the bright, wide grin Jim's been sporting since waking up. His companions sigh in their own ways -- Uhura shakes her head, long black hair swinging back and forth in her pony tail, Spock cocks an eyebrow marginally. The man _speaks_ with his eyebrows, a language Jim has only begun to understand. Maybe that's why Uhura's with him; he's another language to study and dominate.

"I do not understand your continued amusement," Spock says. He's got a tricorder out, their map, and begins leading the group -- the three officers plus a handful of security -- down off the hill onto the flat dirt of Thi'lik'ah.

The town's surrounded on three sides by high hills, the fourth giving way to wide, green plains that look like rows and rows of corn (but are probably some local, alien crop they'll be fed in a few hours) a forest far past that.

The only mar on the beautiful scene is the modern white building of the Asclepius Research Facility, home to hundreds of scientists, officers, and their families. Homes dot the hill around it, but word is, the Federation colonists co-exist peacefully with the native Katari, a humanoid race focused on inner growth and scientific exploration. This meeting is par for the course, the position of Mayor transitory between elders. In five years, Thi'ilk'ah has gone through seven mayors, all quick to demand more from their alien neighbors.

As far as Jim knows, they're still trying.

Catching up to his first officer, he sneaks a peek at the map. "C'mon, Spock! A new culture. Fascinating science."

Uhura looks like she desperately wants to say something, her lips pressed together to form a tight line, and he'd bet she's biting her cheek. Part of him wants to smirk at her newfound self-control, but the other knows the comment isn't a kind one, and she won't say it to him because of who he is. It's a departure from the girl he met four years ago, something he doesn't like very much.

Then again, he knew becoming captain was going to change things.

Doesn't mean he particularly _likes it_.

Sighing, he leans forward a bit to see her around Spock. "Just say it, Uhura."

"Say what?" she shoots back. "I think it goes without saying."

Ah, _yes_. He leans back, falling in step with Spock as they enter the town and make footprints in the alien equivalent of dirt, big boot prints erasing the native steps, overtaking them without a second thought.

--

Katashi meet in large halls that remind Jim of the Acadamy's lecture halls -- stadium seating, a sunken stage at the bottom -- except this one has a large table taking up most of the space. They're a race of equality, and all are welcome during diplomatic visits.

Doesn't mean they all participate.

When they're led through a door at the back of the room, there are only a dozen people seated in the the audience, a few of which look old enough to pass away by the time they're finished with the talks. Seems as though entertainment for the elderly's the same no matter the planet.

At the bottom of the stairs stands the mayor of Thi'lik'ah, an elder flanked on either side by highly-decorated guards, primitive spears held in their hands; it's a ceremonial weapon, not realistic, as phasers are strapped to their waists. The Katashi are humanoid, if a bit taller, with lanky, slim limbs, like a stick figure drawn by a child. A pale complexion exists in stark contrast to blood-red hair and bright crimson eyes; they're alien albinos, almost, strange and familiar at the same time.

Near them, the facility's commander and a few men of his own watch with bored feigned-interest.

"Welcome, Captain, to Katash," greets the one on the left, his outfit purple instead of red. Jim comes to a halt just in front of him, Uhura and Spock off his shoulders, their security escort behind them, and nods his head. "I am Di'ilk. May I present elder Ku'ah Shish."

"It's an honor to meet you, sir," Jim says in his most professional and respectful tone.

"Let us get started," Ku'ah Shish replies. He doesn't even hold out a hand for Jim to shake; in fact, he appears to not want anything to do with him or his team, just turns his back and takes a seat at the head of the table.

The others move quicker while Jim hangs back. Something has those senses that kept him out of the more deadly fights back home wondering exactly _what_ Christopher Pike has gotten him into.

When he was fifteen, Jim Kirk rode his bike ten miles, made sure he didn't recognize any cars in the parking lot, and double checked his ID scanner hack. He'd tested it three hours earlier, before he left the house without a word (not that anyone cared, asked after him; Sam had left eons ago and rarely called), but, nervous, did so again.

He looked old for his age, the result of a growth spurt a few years before, and sauntered into the place like he _owned_ it. Went right up to the bar, slid onto a stool, and flashed his biggest, widest grin, almost _daring_ the bartender to scan him.

The guy never did. Gave him a beer on the house, didn't charge him, and told him never to come back.

But he felt eyes on him the whole time, like they knew what he was up to, knew everything about him, and were comfortable ignoring it for just one night. There would be other nights, other bars, other opportunities to teach this kid a lesson, but right then, it was as if they knew something he didn't.

Twirling a stylus between his fingers, Jim can't shake that feeling; that the elder and his advisor are thinking the same thing -- he isn't who he says he is, is a liar, is here to pull one over on them. In the few hours between joining the guys for a drink and arrival, he'd reviewed the last few years of reports coming out of the facility, done a bit of basic research on the planet and surrounding community.

Sitting at the table, drowning in data, Jim has never felt more out of his depth.

"Kirk, _stop it_," Uhura whispers harshly, leaning forward. She says it again, the second time catching Jim's attention, and he shifts back to the present, letting the stylus clatter to the tabletop. The sound catches everyone's attention, the elder's dark eyes sharp on the offending captain.

"Captain?" he asks.

A lesser man would shrink under the elder's intense, alien gaze, but not Jim. He squares his shoulders and leans forward, resting elbows on the tabletop, hands clasped; he's seen the pose on others and has always learned by example. "I need to discuss some things with my officers," he says, purposely leaving out the resident commander. "Some things have come to my attention that may benefit all of us. Is it alright to take a break?"

The elder doesn't even answer; he's up from the table with a flash of delicate embroidery before anyone can comment on his expression of contempt.

--

"Captain, I do not believe -- "

"Not here."

If the interruption annoys Spock, he doesn't let it show. Out in the hallway, the air is cooler, still, sheltered from the sun by heavy draperies. It curves around the central chamber, and Jim leads them away from the entrance, moving forever until they come to the end of the building.

"Captain?" This time, Uhura speaks up. "What's going on?"

He leans around the curve, then turns to Spock. "Can you pull up the reports from Asclepius for, uh, the last five years?"

"Surely you reviewed this information before arrival," Spock says, though he pulls out his tricorder anyway. "Perhaps if you did not partake in -- "

"It was _one beer_, Spock," Jim snaps. Uhura watches as he visibly composes himself, pushes all that raw passion and emotion back under the surface like an Olympic athlete wins a medal. "More specifically, who filed the reports."

Now isn't the time to try and understand where he's going with this. Spock pulls up the list. "Commander Larass has been filing reports with Starfleet Science Division for the past three years. His predecessor was a Commander David MacCross."

Jim nods. He's pacing, now, hand to his chin, eyes studying the pattern he's wearing into the floor. The draperies dampen the sound of his boots thumping on the uneven stone, of their voices, of anyone else. Uhura feels isolated, alone in a way space never seems to; there are always people about, the lights and automated services popping up to keep one from going crazy. Here, they're alone and at the mercy of Jim Kirk's idea of rational thinking.

"Pull up MacCross' service record," Jim says suddenly, stopping mid-stride. "How long has he been with Starfleet?"

"Seventeen years. His departure from the Asclepius Program was abrupt, and Commander Larass was promoted without the necessary pre-qualifications." His look at the end is pointed, brows just a bit furrowed, _like you_, they seem to say. But Jim's mind is working too fast to notice the subtle insult.

Three years. Sudden departure. Larass' odd promotion. The looks of the elder and his delegation. He remembers Pike's wording, how it sounded off when he relayed the orders the night before, eight hours before (as if the three hours of sleep Jim got could be called _night_).

"Uhura, is there any way the _Enterprise_ could access the original request for diplomatic assistance?" His voice is rushed, blue eyes bright, fevered almost. Off Uhura's confused look, he waves his hands in the air as if that would help clarify his language. "You know, remotely."

"Since we've _officially_ been assigned the mission, we should have access to the original data," she postulates. "It's a grey area, but I'm sure you have no problem with that."

He smirks. "Do it."

--

They're called back before Uhura's counterpart on the bridge can send through the audio.

They enter separate from Commander Larass, the man keeping his eyes on them as he moves to sit on Jim's left, forcing Spock to the other side. Before the Mayor enters, Larass leans in close to the captain, closer than is comfortable until his breath is hot on Jim's neck.

"Hello," Jim remarks, jumping a bit.

"You're here to represent the interests of the Federation, _Captain_," Larass says. "And as the representative here on Katash, it would be prudent to inform me of what _exactly_ you felt you needed to run away from me to discuss."

"Let me remind _you_ that I don't answer to you _or_ the Science Division, and as a Commander, you should show a superior officer a little respect."

Larass lets out a bark of laughter. "You? You're not superior in any way. Just because you blackmailed a command out of Starfleet -- "

"We are ready to resume, Captain, guests."

The announcement cuts Larass off before he can finish his insult. Which, Jim reflects, is a good thing, as he may not have been able to control himself despite the circumstances. Being Captain for three months may have subdued him a bit, but hasn't changed his fundamental nature; what benefits him in battle may cause an incident here planet-side.

Waiting for the information is an odd sensation, and Jim casts a sidelong glance at Uhura, who simply shakes her head. _Not yet_. With her in the chair, retrieval would be instant, but she's here, instead, wishing to observe the native Katashi language, love for linguistics and language overriding her usual desire to remain on board the ship.

He can use that.

"Before we resume, Mayor Shish, I was wondering if I may ask a favor," Jim finds himself saying, his words drawing surprise from everyone -- this is a deviation from the script. The man inclines his head just a bit, and Jim takes that as permission to continue. "My communications officer here would like to study your native language; maybe you could spare some time after we're finished here?"

Looks pass between the Katashi. "Yes, yes, of course."

"Thank you," remarks a surprised Uhura. "I'd be be very honored."

Jim glances to Uhura -- _anything?_ -- waiting for confirmation on what he knows in his gut is true. He wishes he could record this moment for Bones, this thought process of _thinking_ before acting, or else his friend will never believe him capable.

The air hangs heavy, practically suffocating them, words spoken getting stuck in the distance between sides. When embarking on their five year mission, Jim imagined brilliant space battles, damsels in distress, even the occasional uncharted planet just waiting to be explored. And while he _knew_ much of the Federation's work was diplomatic, he thought more of the position of the flagship's captain.

Maybe you get used to it. After time, you actually become interested in what's going on, in the double talk of diplomats, how _nothing is actually said_. Jim has never enjoyed staying still, seeking out speed in any form, going as fast as he can; this whole diplomatic process is the very antithesis of his normal mode of operating.

A _beep_ draws his attention to the communicator on his belt. With the same slight of hand that allowed him to slack off during boring lectures (and why does he still compare life to the _academy_?), he slides the device from his side and flips it open in his lap. The message looms in large white letters.

_No transmission from Katash recorded by Starfleet Command._

Damn it.

Jim slams the communicator closed with the grace of a running elephant and shoves it back on his belt.

"You didn't call us here, did you, Mayor Shish?" he remarks, eyes sliding to Larass for a fraction of a second, then back on Shish. "You usually go through these negotiations with the station's commander, asking for more supplies or whatever else you need, let them know you're in power down here, and that's it. So why, this time, would you suddenly require the presence of a Federation captain?" He's standing, now, hands on the back of the chair, blue eyes wild as his mind works.

"You know only the host planet can request diplomatic assistance," Larass tosses over his shoulder at Jim.

"And we checked that," Jim replies. "Seems Starfleet has no record of the Katashi sending _any_ message, diplomatic or otherwise. Which begs the question -- who made it _look like_ they had?"

--

Sliding behind an upturned table, Jim narrowly misses losing his head. He glances at Spock -- _thanks!_ -- before stronger phaser bursts burn through the thick wood-like table they've taken refuge behind, sizzling in the wall behind them.

"I recommend we find alternate shelter."

"_Really_? I thought we'd stay here a bit longer," shoots Jim.

"That would be illogical, as this table will not remain intact for long."

"That was _sarcasm_, Spock. How can you spend all this time around humans and still not get it?"

"This is not the time -- "

Jim sighs and ducks under the fire before Spock can finish his attempt at pointing out the obvious. He weaves and bobs, somersaults at a point, just to get to the other side of the expansive meeting room, past rows of upturned, charred chairs and _bodies_. He catches sight of one of his, down, eyes already losing color, greying out -- his stomach turns and he shoves it to the back of his mind. _Deal with it later, Jim_.

He finds refuge behind a row of chairs and taps his communicator. "Kirk to _Enterprise_. What the hell is taking so long? Get us out of here!"

Scotty's voice is tiny, his words larger. "You're movin' around to much. You ever think about stayin' still when we're tryin' to beam ya?"

"Sorry I can't accommodate you, but we're under attack__here!"

Spock slams into the chairs next to him, the arm of his blue uniform shirt singed from a close call.

"We will run out of cover in approximately four minutes and seventeen seconds," he reports. "Lt. Uhura has found a back exit and is covering our route."

Jim nods. "Lead the way."

He's never seen Uhura shoot a phaser, but as an officer, she's had the same training as him. As Spock checks for an opening, Jim hopes Uhura has aim as good as her linguistic skills because he's effectively putting his life in her hand.

_3, 2, 1_. They're sprinting across the chaos of the traditional Katari Meeting Hall, leaping over chair and furniture and bodies, ducking here and there as Uhara lets off shots from an unseen location. Both whirl and shoot, their shots met with cries from the Katari covering the main exit of the room, across from where they are.

Spock makes it first, passing through the doorway. He's greeted by Uhura, who's deep brown eyes linger on him for just a second -- a _second_! -- Jim leaps for the opening, hears a shot coming for him, and prays it isn't set to kill.


	2. Chapter 2

Just a quick note to say how amazed I am by the response to chapter one! I'm thrilled you're enjoying this so far. And now I'll shut up so you can get to the next part!

**Chapter Two.**

She can tell him by his scent. Even after years away from Vulcan, he still smells of the deserts of her home with an added hint of sage; she doesn't know where that comes from, and has never asked. It simply isn't done -- both are so guarded, they're comfortable learning as the other is willing to reveal.

Scent comes to her first, before consciousness, before a sense of self. She's lost and dizzy and doesn't want to move an inch.

No, it would do her good to stay where she is.

Sunshine warms the brown skin of her face, a flushed heat that has her turning over before her mind can process the presence of _sun_; she pops up with a start as a breeze plays with the loose hairs around her face.

Eyes wide, the scientist in her examines their surroundings. The flatlands of Thi'lik'ah have been replaced with a deep, lush, _wet_ forest, vines growing up and around the thick trunks of alien trees. She has no frame of reference other than Earth, her studies the last thing on her mind as the recalls the last few hours and --

"I believe four standard hours have passed."

Spock's awake -- he probably awoke as soon as she moved, the light sleeper that he is -- and sitting up next to her, his right hand resting on her lower back. Nyota shifts to look at her own tricorder, not that she doesn't believe him, but she _is_ human after all, and hundreds of years of technological advancement and space travel isn't enough to break some instincts.

Hands coming up empty, she finally looks at him, spots the patch of dark green spreading across the side of his face, down around his jaw. In all her years, she's never seen a Vulcan bruise, and if it weren't _him_, she might be freaked out. As it is, there are bigger things on her mind.

Like, to her dismay, where the captain is.

"Our equipment and communicators are missing," announces Spock, standing. He holds a hand out to her, but Nyota's already on her feet.

"Great. How are we supposed to get back to the _Enterprise_?"

"I suggest we attempt to head west."

It's as good a direction as any.

--

"What the hell do you mean, you can't _find them_?"

The bridge is uncharacteristically quiet but for the chirps and beeps of various systems doing automated tasks, waves of light upon bright screens. Striding onto the bridge with the long steps of a focused doctor, Bones McCoy growls with that gravely voice forged from years of sipping on his flask. In the captain's chair, Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu appears stricken in the face of the crabby doctor; he risks a glance, then steadies himself.

"We know they're still on-world -- "

"_Obviously_."

"-- but we haven't been able to verify the locators."

Exasperated, McCoy crosses his arms. "What does that mean?"

"While we have discovered the location of their coms," Ensign Pavel Chekov reports. "They are not attached, Doctor. We believe they were removed so it would become difficult to locate them."

"And no one's planned for this? Isn't there another way to find them? Aren't there scanners for this sort of thing?" he rants in a huff. The longer this takes, the stronger that feeling in the bottom of his stomach gets that _something isn't right_.

"Local plant life is causing difficulty," reports the officer at the science station.

McCoy shakes his head. "It's always something. Atmospheric interference. Environmental. You'd think they'd figure out some way to get through these things, considering we explore _alien planets_."

"We're scanning every ten seconds, Doctor McCoy," Sulu says, voice even. McCoy recognizes an attempt to _calm him down_; he's usually the one doing it, and doesn't like getting a taste of his own medicine. "A security team is organizing to go down after them, but because of the reports from the team we recovered..."

He lets the sentence hang in the air. _We can't risk losing more people on a rescue mission_. It's in these moments Bones appreciates Jim's particular style of command -- he'd throw the rule book out and order the security team down, dangers be damned. He cares more for the _people_ than the damn regulations, something, Bones hopes, the crew will come to admire.

For now, they're still sticking to Regulation, afraid of what will happen if they break them and Jim doesn't come back to defend them.

_Don't think like that_.

But it's been four hours since negotiations broke down. Since the last transmission wasn't a spoken voice, but phaser bursts and shouts and screams. Since Bones regretted not going down with his captain, his _friend_.

--

He wakes up dazed, the sky above a lush green canopy like those photos of the rainforest in his elementary school textbooks; an endangered habitat safeguarded by scientists and conservationists, studied like the dinosaurs by little boys in Iowa. That's what he loves about space travel, now that he's fallen into a steady routine of nothing, nothing, exciting new planet. How each is a little piece of Earth, oddly shaped puzzle pieces that fit together against the dark backdrop of the unknown.

Bits of memory come back, glimpses here and there as his brain wakes up. He can remember coming down to the planet with Spock and Uhura, teasing her about being so excited to study a new language in-person. Spock, of course, defends her, but doesn't catch her rolling her eyes behind his back -- all these years with humans, and he doesn't understand that the captain's sharing her excitement in his own way.

The moment of solidarity reminds him just how far they've come.

While memories clarify, he does a mental check. Vision's a bit foggy at the edges. Arms feel fine. Back's a bit sore. Kicking up his knees, he finds them a bit stiff, but working.

It's when Jim Kirk starts to roll onto his side to get up that he figures out something is _very wrong_.

--

An hour later, Sulu's returned to his seat at the helmsman's station, uncomfortable being a prop in someone else's chair. It sits empty, a constant, dark reminder of their task at hand.

McCoy remains off to the side, eyes sharp on the various instrumentation, hoping to spot a blip someone else misses, a chirp of hope, a half-second of signal. He's cross-trained in tactics, can read the damn screens as well as anybody else, not that he understands half the equations and subtleties of space-travel physics. Give him scanner readouts or medication schedules and he's fine. The finer internals of the human body, those rivers of blood and spindly webs of nerves, and he's in his element.

This...he's used to seeing a person, treating them, and never seeing them outside the confining walls of his practice or the hospital. He didn't know what they did when they were out in the world, the choices they made, just saw and mended the _results_.

Standing on the bridge of the _Enterprise_ waiting to see if his friend's dead or alive, well, that is the sort of thing he never thought he'd have to get used to.

"Stupid hard-headed bastard," he mutters under his breath, then starts when he realizes how close his description falls to that of Spock. Great. Now he's grouping them together. Serves 'em right, damn thorns in his side. Other Chief Medical Officers don't have to deal with this crap, do they?

--

The canopy keeps hot sunlight from hitting him, but moisture in the soil causes steam to seep up from the soft dirt beneath his feet. Uneven ground makes it hard to keep his footing, but plenty of trees means he isn't without spontaneous support; every few feet, his footing gives out and he lurches to the right or left, falling into the thick trunks.

Underfoot, the ground gives, sending Jim crashing into the nearest trunk, but it isn't close enough -- his hand scrapes against rough bark, desperate to find a handhold. It cuts into the skin of his palm as he falls -- _thud!_ -- onto his injured side.

He's been walking for hours but hasn't gone far. Birds chirp overhead as his vision swims, begins to dim -- and damn, if he could just _walk straight_ on this damn planet, he'd be halfway to civilization by now instead of passing out for the fourth time.

--

They don't speak much -- Spock seems to move gracefully over the uneven ground where Nyota's tripping and stumbling her way through the rough foliage. She's a bit self-conscious of her clumsy movements, but knows Spock doesn't care -- doesn't make the connection between difficulty of movement and incompetence that humans do. She's thankful for that, because, at the moment, her uniform's covered in mud, her hair's a tangled mess, and she's lost an earring. Her boyfriend teasing her would be a bit much at the moment.

After three hours of slow going, Nyota trips on an exposed root and falls forward, catching herself on Spock's arm. He absorbs the momentum, twisting to grab her shoulder and pull her upright. In the greenery, they're locked in an embrace, both on their feet, faces dotted with mud and whatever else they've picked up on this planet. Nyota can't help but marvel at how achingly _young_ Spock looks, how _human_.

She sighs and leans into him. "We need to take a break."

"Considering how long we were unconscious and the roughness of the terrain, I estimate we will reach the settlement within the hour," he summarizes, voice rumbling through his chest, through Nyota's cheek. "I did not observe any vehicles that would be well-suited for traversing this environment."

She nods, resting against his solid strength for just a moment. A moment is all she needs.

--

After hours of hailing the research facility, Lieutenant Roberts hears the chiming of an answering party, and can't keep the excitement from his voice when he delivers the news to Sulu.

"Put it on the viewscreen," Sulu orders. When the face of an attending scientist appears, he grips the armrests of his, channeling all his anger to whitening knuckles to keep from screaming at the only person who's answered their calls.

"This is Lt. Hikaru Sulu on the USS _Enterprise_. To whom am I speaking?"

"Dr. Bertram Zylo. What's going on? We haven't heard from Commander Larass in _hours_. Your people were supposed to keep him _safe_."

Sulu frowns. "We haven't heard from our people, either, Doctor. And I wasn't aware security was part of this mission."

"Are you _insane_? The locals have been threatening us for _months_! This wasn't a diplomatic mission, lieutenant, it's a negotiation for control."

--

Ahead, Nyota spots the trees thinning, the presence of sky and clouds finally appearing after hours of traveling. While the break a little over an hour ago renewed her strength, the constant movement through alien terrain coupled with a lingering headache from whatever was used to render them unconscious pulls at her; she'd run for the break in the trees if her legs weren't so bruised and weak.

Thankfully, Spock isn't too keen on moving quicker now that the edge of the forest has been established -- why move faster when you'll get there in due time? -- easily keeping pace with Nyota as the end to this unknown journey is just ahead.

Sunlight brings a new perspective on the foliage they've been traveling through; bright fauna sprout up in clumps near the trees, beautiful in their strangeness.

With a sigh, Nyota steps out into the light and tilts her head toward the open sky. "Thank _God_," she remarks before turning to the miles of farmland before them. "Sensors should be able to pick us up without our communicators now that we're outside the trees."

Spock nods, but seems more interested in the plant life before them than what they just left. Curious, Nyota follows his gaze to the rows of crops butting up to the tree line. Instead of the bright, healthy harvest they'd been expecting, the foodstuff here is brown and rotted, left to fall from tipping stalks to the ground below. Not even the birds have picked on it -- it is left to be absorbed back into the soil, bleached and swollen.

"It appears this field has been neglected," Spock finally surmises, crouching down to get a better look. "Though why a farmer would abandon his harvest is puzzling."

Nyota's about to agree when a rustling down the line snaps her attention from the oddity before her to the fact that they are still on an alien world where they don't have any allies. In fluid motion, Spock puts himself in front of her -- they'd have to talk about _that_ later -- arm protectively keeping her safe, behind, _shielded_ from whatever's making its way from the forest.

Coiled energy builds up as a foot appears, then an arm -- and s_he knows those boots_.

When Jim appears, battered, face pale, blond hair matted to his head with sweat, he gives them a wry smile. "Hey," he says, before crumpling to the ground.

--

"Lieutenant!" shouts the science station's stand-by officer. "I've reacquired readings on the away team. It seems they've come clear of a dense collection of natural plant life."

Those on the bridge give a sigh of relief. Instantly, the air feels _lighter_.

"Transporter -- "

"I've got 'em. Five, four, three.." interrupts Scotty, called up from engineering to help with the search.

They're out the airlock and into the bright white hallways before Sulu can even tell Chekov to take the conn.

--

"Good God, man! What happened to you?"

Bones doesn't wait long enough for a response. Scotty's rushed up to help Spock support the limp weight of the usually-boisterous captain of the _Enterprise_, shoulders encircled in arms like the man's trying to hug them for getting him out of there alive.

_Alive_, though, is a relative term.

His head lolls back and forth as the trio slowly make their way from the transporter room, blue eyes half-lidded and glazed over. Survival instinct got him this far -- back to the ship -- but the human body can only take so much, and Jim's doesn't have anything left. Empty of youthful enthusiasm, Bones feels like he's treating a stranger, one of the wounded who wandered into the ER back when he was on rotation in Georgia, and it helps him remain detached as the scanner begins reporting on his condition.

God, he needs a drink.

Instead, he leads the way into a lift, watches white doors slide closed behind them, noting how much they match his patient's complexion. He's pale, dotted with bruises. But it's the blood matted to the right side of his gold uniform that grabs Bones' attention, a deep red blot on the pristine cleanliness of the starship.

The lift jolting to a stop pulls a moan from Jim, and Bones thinks it's the most wonderful sound he's heard, next to the first cries of his daughter being born.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three.**

Sickbay is a flurry of activity with Bones McCoy as its conductor. Scanner in hand, his movements are fluid and practiced, hands steady as he scans his patient, eyes flicking up to the readout display on the wall above the bed every so often before barking orders to the swirling technicians. Nurse Chapel stands tight to his side, handing him whatever he needs, interpreting his grunts and grumbles into understandable orders.

"Damnit Jim," he mutters, putting the scanner down to grab some scissors. His patient's still awake, eyes sliding slowly to Bone's face, and -- damn kid! -- he's trying to smile. "Oh, don't even start with me, kid. Let me guess, this wasn't your fault, right?"

"Nope," he manages. There's pain laced into his features, lines deepening as Bones cuts off his uniform tunic, then the dark undershirt. He pauses before pulling the layers of fabric from the dried wound, compassion filling his eyes.

"This is going to hurt."

Chapel's got a hand on Jim's shoulder; thank _God_ one of them got through the Academy with a bedside manner. Bones tries to be gentle, wetting the fabric before pulling it, but he can't take too long. Sensors above the bed show an elevated temperature and alien infection, both of which could escalate without warning. He's seen it happen before, and he'll be damned if he loses Jim.

The wound underneath is raw and swollen, both signs of an infection. A disgruntled grunt passes Bones' lips -- he hasn't seen a wound this bad since med school, when a kid came in after his brother shot him with a late 22nd century phaser. Technology on Katash must not have progressed much farther; it's cut a hole through Jim's side, burning the skin around the wound. The smell's suffocating -- he catches Chapel wrinkle her nose as she tightens her grip.

Turning to face the pair hovering near the entrance, Bones calls over his shoulder, "What the _hell_ happened down there?"

Spock opens his mouth to retort, but Uhura places a hand on his arm, silencing him. _It's rhetorical_, Bones wants to shout.

"Doctor," Chapel says, inclining her head to the readout.

"God damnit! Fever's spiking and we don't know anything about the native plant life," he gushes in a rush. "Give me 50cc of antibiotics and find some damn cooling blankets!" Chapel rushes off, barking orders herself, sending techs on their way to get what's needed. Bones pauses for a moment, remembering his patient, and places a hand on Jim's forehead -- it's hot to the touch, clammy, damp with sweat, and _good God, _why does trouble always find his friend?

"I really hope you aren't allergic to any more of these meds, Jim, cause I don't know if I..."

He shakes his head, lets his hand linger a moment longer, then gets back to work.

--

It doesn't take a doctor to understand the words and numbers on those big, glowing readouts. Uhura finds her eyes glued to that instead of the man underneath or the doctor or any of the others running around in front of her. Delicate hearing picks up the steady staccato of a rushing heart, the muttered words between doctor and patient, even the way Jim holds his breath, how it stutters and shakes on intake.

She doesn't want to hear _any_ of it. Turning sharply on her heels, she escapes the brightness of the medical bay for the dimmer lighting of a simulated night, sagging against the curved wall.

The last few moments she remembers before waking in the lush greenery are run through her head.

_Running from incoming fire, she finds a hole, a dark doorway, and takes cover inside, phaser in her hand. Catching Spock's eye, she motions for him to make his way, holds out the weapon, smiles. _

_And then they are running for her, backs turned to the enemy, and it's her duty to keep them from getting hit. Spock comes through the doorway first, her eyes linger -- __he's_ safe_ -- and then Kirk's running and falling and it's all her fault. _

Uhura's so wrapped up in her thoughts, she doesn't hear the doors to sickbay slide open, nor the footfalls she's so used to hearing in the dark step out toward her.

"Nyota?" Spock asks. "Do you require assistance?"

Opening her eyes, Uhura looks up at him, wondering why he's out here worried about _her_. "No, no, I'm fine."

"You do not appear fine," he replies.

The emotions could be written across her face, and he'd never be able to read them. Whereas they speak the same language, there's another, subtler, deeper one she'll never be able to teach him.

"I was distracted," she states. "When you came through the doorway, I was just so relieved you were okay. It distracted me from covering Kirk."

"I, too, was distracted," he says, holding up a hand. "It was both our duties, as the Captain's companions, to insure his safe return to the ship."

She scoffs. "He won't see it that way."

"Precisely the reason why I have not filed my report," he tells her. "While, normally, I would have presented myself for disciplinary action by now, the Captain's particular method of command has me waiting until he is recovered enough to render a decision himself."

"You mean, he'll kick your ass for even considering it," deadpans Uhura.

"Correct."

Behind them, the doors woosh again, a blue-shirted medical officer rushing out, running down the hall in the opposite direction. Uhura follows him with her eyes until he's out of sight, only then catching a sliver of the action inside before the doors close.

She doesn't want to know.

"Nyota," Spock says. "It is not your fault."

She pushes herself off the wall, squares her shoulders, and looks him straight in the eye. "Not all of it, maybe, but some of it." She motions to the air between them, words failing her -- _her_! "Because of this."

--

Lights reduced for a simulated night cast eerie shadows on the illuminated walls of the _Enterprise'_s medical bay, waveforms slithering across the walls, glowing snakes with no destination. Jim Kirk blinks a few times, large, wide-eyed blinks that clear sleep-encrusted eyes, each flash of dimmed light sadistically stabbing through his brain. Everything is foggy -- memory, sight, even his body feels like a cloud floating off somewhere, lost because of a broken tether to the ground.

The sensation is like waking after a night of unremembered drinking with a massive hangover, that painful swim through a shifting reality. Frowning reflexively, Jim doesn't remember getting shitfaced any time in the recent past. In fact, last he can recall --

-- memories slam into him in the center of his chest, stealing his breath. The planet. Angry natives. Commander Larass and his faked transmission. Someone separating all of them, not wanting to carry three bodies into the greenery.

"Breathe, man," orders a stern voice above him, reminding Jim to suck air in -- he does so in one huge gulp, lungs expanding and pulling at his side. Though treated and stitched, the skin is still raw, insides mending, and the movement causes a crack, a pull, waking up numb nerves. As they scream, Jim gasps and pales, gritting his teeth while things _calm down_.

"Thanks," he rasps a minute later, "for the advice."

"Yeah? Would now be a good time for I told you so?"

He can't shake his head, _can't move_, so settles for rolling his eyes.

"Oh, _right_, I didn't, did I? Well, let me, then," Bones drawls. A few more blinks clears Jim's vision enough for him to make out the doctor standing above him, arms crossed, chin held. "What the hell happened down there? You almost _died_, Jim. You hear me?"

Speaking requires breath, something he's not too keen on doing right now; he takes little, shallow breaths that punctuate his sentences into staccato bursts. "This time, it really wasn't my fault." And it takes a lot out of him to say even that.

"Jim?" Bones asks. His face looms above, concern in his features. "Hold on a second."

There's a twist and hiss before a sharp jab in the side of his neck; it may be a bit more painful than the older way of doing things, but then he wouldn't be feeling relief so quickly. It's like someone cut the rubber bands encircling his torso, and he takes a deep breath that makes him dizzy and lightheaded, but more awake.

"Don't go thinking that just because you're not feeling it means you can move around," admonishes Bones, suddenly reappearing in his field of vision. "Damn weapon burned a hole in your side. Thank God it cauterized everything, made repairing things easier, but that doesn't mean it was _clean_."

Usually, when Bones starts getting into his clinical talk, Jim tunes him out or changes the subject, but finds that when he's the subject, it all becomes more interesting.

"Thanks, man," he says. His voice is worn, tired, and he hates it.

Bones sighs and sits on the edge of the bed. "Promise me you'll stay put until I release you," he remarks. "I've got the infection managed for now, but with your sensitivity to medications and the unknown environment," he trails off, shaking his head. "I just wish I had a sample - I hate working blind," he ends up muttering to himself. Looking up, he finishes, "Moving around could release more stuff into your bloodstream -- "

"I got it," interrupts Jim.

"No, I don't think you do."

"Bones," he says, eyes suddenly intense and focused. "I'm going to be _fine._"

With a huff, an unseen weight lifts from his friend's shoulders; he sits straighter and frowns deeper, an improvement from the placid worry on his normally sour features, the lights illuminating tired eyes. They sit like this for a beat or two -- in all the time they've known each other, it has never been _this_ close. Even with all the drugs running through his system, Jim can feel it.

Then Bones is standing. "Damn right, you'll be fine. You've got me as your personal physician."

A hypospray later, Jim's sinking down, down, and doesn't care that he can't do a damn thing about it.

--

Some days, Leonard McCoy wishes he could lock the medical bay door.

Whether to keep wayward patients in or annoying, meddling crewmembers out, it didn't matter. All that matters is being able to control the environment of this small domain inside the larger insanity run by his equally insane best friend. Didn't regulations allow for such an autonomous region of the ship under the direct control of the CMO? Why the hell didn't anyone take him seriously when he told them, in no uncertain terms:

"Absolutely not. Get out of here and don't come back until I say you can."

Standing inside the doorway to sickbay, Spock betrays no emotion as he takes McCoy's verbal lashing, just waits for him to finish before replying. "And when would that be, Doctor?"

"I don't know. I'm a doctor, not a psychic. Maybe _you_ can tell _me_ what the hell is going on."

"I am sure I do not know any more than you," replies the stoic Spock. "While I do possess rudimentary medical knowledge, it is limited to my own experience and does not include surgical skills."

Exasperated, McCoy throws his arms in the air. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

"Perhaps if you could clarify to what you need more information about."

"How about _what happened_?"

Listening from deeper within the med bay, Jim Kirk can't help but smirk at the argument of logic versus good old human thinking; when combined, he hypothesizes, it resulted in the combatants running in verbal circles until one, unable to continue out of sheer frustration, simply gave up and walked away.

And since Spock didn't _do_ frustrated, it's usually Bones who ends up leaving the room.

Wanting -- no, _needing_ -- to get more information from his First Officer, Jim swings up to a seated position, gripping the bed on either side of him. McCoy catches the movement from the corner of his eye and takes it as a welcomed reprieve from his latest "discussion" with Spock; logic be damned, the man's as infuriating as the first day they met.

He turns from the Vulcan without a word, wishing his uniform allowed room to carry a sedative-loaded hypospray. The last five or six hours have been kind to the _Enterprise_'s captain; regenerators have stitched together most of the burned tissue, and, thank _God_, Jim hasn't reacted negatively to the battery of antibiotics and antivirals McCoy's administered. If he were any other man, McCoy would have cleared him for light duty by now, but _light_ isn't in Jim's vocabulary.

_No_, McCoy thinks, crossing the bay in long, efficient strides,_ it's best to keep him here where I can watch him rather than let him wander the ship doing God knows what. _

"Jim, how are you feeling?"

He winces. "Sore."

"Well, that's to be expected, I guess, considering everything I've had to do to patch you up," McCoy drawls. "Remember your promise and I'll let you have visitors."

Nodding, Jim slouches a bit, leaning more on his arms. McCoy waits a moment, searching for a sign of deception -- finding none, he turns to the side and gestures at Spock.

"He's all yours."

"Perhaps it would be best if Lieutenant Uhura joined us? I believe she may have insights pertinent to our discussion," suggests Spock, crossing the room.

"Yeah, sure," Jim says.

Movements clipped and precise, Spock crosses to the nearest terminal and calls up to the bridge. While he speaks, McCoy leans against a wall off to the side, arms crossed, and practically bores a hole in his friend's head with his gaze.

"Stop staring at me like that, man, it's creeping me out," Jim remarks. He looks up with hooded eyes, a smirk dancing on his face.

"A diplomatic mission, you said. You know that implies no fighting or danger, right? At least to most of us here in the sane world. How you can go down there to _talk_ and come back half-dead astounds me."

"I didn't start anything, I swear. One minute, I'm trying to figure out who sent the faked signal in the first place, the next -- "

"Faked signal?"

"Yeah," he smiles, a bit more awake. "Apparently, the commander down there wanted back-up for this negotiation."

"One of the scientists we managed to contact down there was under the impression that you were there for security. You sure you didn't misinterpret the orders, you know," he waves his hands in the air.

Jim closes his eyes for a moment, shakes his head. "Maybe before, sure." He looks up, all that youth buried by two wide stripes on his shirt's cuffs. "I wouldn't risk anyone unless I absolutely had to, Bones."

"Of course not. You'd go yourself."

He sighs. "It wasn't my fault."

"You sound like a kid, now, Jim, but I'll humor you. If it wasn't your fault, then who's was it?"

"Mine."

Both turn at the new, distinctly feminine, voice. Uhura stands stiffly in the doorway, ramrod straight.

"Uhura..." starts Jim.

"No, Captain," and when she says it, it _doesn't_ sound like she's saying _idiot_ instead. "I was," -- deep breath, her eyes flicker to where Spock's standing near McCoy -- "momentarily distracted. I was supposed to be covering your retreat. Instead, I took my attention from you, leaving an opening for you to be hit." If anyone could become more stiff, Nyota Uhura could. "It won't happen again."

"I'm sure it won't." Jim gives a bright smile, not the I'm-hitting-on-you smile, or the I-want-something, but a rare, genuine one.

If it's supposed to warm the room, it doesn't have the desired effect on Uhura. She doesn't move, doesn't speak, just stands almost at attention, hovering as close to the hallway she can get while still in sickbay. It strikes McCoy that she may not understand _what_ exactly Jim's saying, and as universal translator for all things Jim Kirk, he pushes off the wall and turns to her.

"What he's saying is that -- "

"-- it won't happen again because it was an accident," Jim finishes."I get that you feel responsible, and appreciate your concern, but I'm _not holding you responsible_, okay?"

"Captain -- "

"Jim. And that's final, Uhura." He motions with a hand. "Can we get on with this? Bones is about to blow a gasket if we don't fill him in. And I'm curious about what happened to you two."

"I believe it would be best if we included Lt. Sulu in this discussion, as he was on the bridge during the duration of our time on Katash and would be able to inform us of what may have happened during the search," Spock speaks up.

McCoy's got his mouth open -- _why did you go through all the trouble of bringing Uhura down here if you just want to go back up to the bridge?_ -- but stops himself from speaking out loud. Damn if the green-blooded bastard doesn't have a measure of compassion; Uhura needed to speak her peace without everyone watching before she could move forward. He's sure Spock has some logical reasoning behind his decision, but McCoy decides to tuck this away as proof there's something going on up there that doesn't have to do with logic or math or whatever it is Vulcans study.

"Well, then," Jim says, standing, "let's go." And before McCoy can object, he adds, "I'll be careful, but just in case, why don't you come with."

"Oh, you bet your ass I'm coming with."

--

Maintaining an orbit around Katash takes minimal effort; the computer makes any minute orbital corrections due to gravitational pull and other unseen forces, alerting the helmsman if his attention is required.

Not too hard to do. And with Hikaru Sulu swiveled in his chair to face the center of the bridge, the computer's in charge of keeping them in space.

"We were able to contact the research facility while you were away, Captain," he reports. "A Doctor Zylo told us this was a security issue, not a diplomatic request."

"What I want to know is how Starfleet Command was convinced it _was_," Jim says. Slouched in his chair, he looks impossibly pale against the black padding.

"Right. Like Command wouldn't lie to us," Bones comments from off to the side.

"I do not believe Starfleet is in the practice of deceiving their captains, Doctor," Spock says. "Though there is a possibility we are not considering."

"That someone at Command changed things," Jim picks up the thread of thought. "Got the request and changed it to diplomatic. What I can't figure out is _why_."

He rests his chin on his hand, staring off into space swirling around them, the stars, once so distant now close enough to touch -- and yet, he's always in the ship or beaming through them, never _out there_ with them. The aft observation deck's become his favorite place, where he can sit and think without anyone commenting on deep contemplation (because they _will_, he knows they will for years until he's a bit older). Whatever Bones has him on makes it easier for his mind to wander, and it takes work to stay _present_.

"The logical assumption would be that whomever intercepted the message is connected in some way to the initial deception."

"Any idea what that is, exactly?"

The bridge is quiet. Jim sighs, frustrated, and starts to stand, needing to move around, get the blood flowing, brain focused. He doesn't like this, doesn't like walking into a situation without the full facts, not when there are 400 people depending on his judgement. He needs more information, _something_ to help get things moving forward.

"How about, now that we've filled you in up here, you tell us who was shooting at you down there," demands Bones with a grumble.

"The captain deduced that our presence on Katash was not requested by the Katashi, but by Commander Larass himself," Spock begins. "We can surmise from your conversation with Dr. Zylo that this is now true."

"Uhura," Jim says, breaking into the explanation, "See if you can find out who received the message from the research facility. It must have been sent to someone direct for the transmission to not be catalogued." Satisfied that she's on it, he turns to Spock. "Obviously, the Katashi planned on attacking no matter who arrived, and Larass knew about this beforehand, or else that doctor -- "

"Zylo," supplies Chekov.

"-- yeah, whatever, Zylo, wouldn't have told you as much."

"Meaning that Larass decided to attack only when he saw we would not be blinding supporting him," surmises Spock. "And did not care who his men hit when firing."

"Wait a second," Bones breaks in, stepping next to Jim and Spock. "You're saying the _commander_ had _men_ there who shot at you? And the natives? And they were shooting _back_?" He shakes his head, bewildered. "Who exactly were _you_ shooting at, then?"

"I wasn't really paying attention, Bones," Jim comments, deadpan. "So they all knew the natives were going to attack, meaning this meeting was a pretense for them to attack each other. Why are the Katashi so pissed off?"

"Captain, I can't locate _any_ message coming from Katashi to Starfleet Command within the past week. They may have sent it through another division as a relay; whoever got this is good," Uhura reports. "Maybe if we had access to the facility's computers, we could find the original, but I can't do that remotely."

"We'll just have to go back down there, then," Jim says.

Bones' face goes red in under a second. "Jim! Good God, man, you can't be serious! Let's ignore the fact that they just attacked a Federation captain; you have a _hole in your side_."

"I have to agree with the doctor; it would not be wise to return to the planet without a clearer understanding of Larass' motivations, nor in your current condition," Spock says. It's a rare moment, the Vulcan agreeing with Bones, and Jim swears Bones' glare softens a bit when Spock speaks.

"Okay, then," Jim concedes, "let's figure out the guy's motivations." He drops heavily into the captain's chair and rubs his forehead. "Spock, scan the planet. Everything; atmospheric, biological, anything you can think of. Let's see if the research they're conducting is affecting the planet itself. Uhura, review all transmissions in the last six months. Bones, I need you to review their research -- tell me _exactly_ what they're studying down there."

A few months in, and this is the first time they've seen Jim delegate like this. Relying on their strengths, giving away tasks instead of doing them all himself. He won't admit how exhausted he is, or how daunting even sitting here overseeing everything is at the moment.

If those scientists are doing something to the population of Katash, he's going to stop it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four.**

Nyota hears rather than sees Kirk leave the bridge; she wonders where he's going and surprises herself with _that_ thought. Since when does _she _care what he is up to? Since their fortuitous first meeting, Nyota Uhura found herself _trying_ to ignore the brash man, going out of her way to avoid him, tuning out when Gaila rambled on about a new rumor floating around the Academy, even dreaming up new insults in case they ran into each other.

It isn't that she dislikes him, per se. Their witty banter stretches her communications skills; most of the cadets were intelligent but boring. Kirk keeps her on her toes. And with all the girls fawning over him at one point or another, Nyota made it her mission to be the only woman in San Francisco not impressed, not fawning.

But, near the end, there, she forgot her initial reasons. Didn't she defend him in the bar, asking her classmates to lay off, even calling him Jim to grab his attention? Wasn't she there all three times he took the _Kobyashi Maru_? When did intentional dislike turn real?

And why is she now surprised she cares?

The answer's obvious, but she's not willing to look that direction. Instead, she focuses on her station, the uplink to Starfleet Command slower this far from a base. Usually, requesting transmissions is a matter of pulling up the database and searching for the right information. Easy, but leaves a definitive mark of access; Kirk may not have said it, but she's sure he wants this to fly under the radar. That is a bit more delicate.

But not impossible.

Watching them is another matter. Most are dry reports, scientists giving updates about progress on projects with coded names -- _we reached stage three with minimal side-effects_ -- an elder here and there asking for increased supplies or announcing a new addition to their council. While yet another runs in the background, she looks up the definition of Asclepius, knowing the Fleet's habit of choosing names based on usage or someone of importance.

_Asclepius: Roman god of healing._

_Explains the chatter about side-effects and stages_, Nyota thinks, sliding back over to the running transmissions. How does medical research effect the planet, though?

She glances sideways at Spock, sitting straight in his chair before the primary science station, every so often calling to another officer for updated readings or a more focused scan. He's precise and exact, totally focused on the task at hand, not wandering like Nyota herself.

When a burst of static issues from her station, she jumps and turns quickly to turn it off before everyone stared, running her practiced hands over familiar controls.

"Lt. Uhura, are you alright?" voices Spock. He's looked up from his own work, face, predictably, blank. But there's a light in his eyes, those human eyes she's learned to read so well, that betrays an ounce of genuine concern.

For him, it's a large show of emotion.

"I'm finding it difficult to concentrate," she admits sotto voice.

"I find this is a condition you have been in since our arrival on Katash. Perhaps you should seek out Doctor McCoy," he suggests. She'd glare if it would have any effect -- she doesn't _need_ to see McCoy -- but his observation has merit. Ever since waking up in the forest, her head hasn't been exactly clear, thoughts wandering, emotions in overdrive.

"Perhaps we both should go," she says. "We were unconscious."

Spock stands, eyebrows knitting across his brow. "I believe the doctor was distracted by the captain's injuries and overlooked us. I shall have a word with him about this."

Given to distraction, Nyota nods and is about to shut down her console when a junior science officer summons Spock, beckoning him over to his station. Excusing himself, he leaves her side; she turns back to her station and scrolls through some more of the Katashi transmissions.

--

There's a couch in the captain's ready room, a small loveseat, actually, in Starfleet red, for visitors. When Bones enters the room -- the door isn't locked -- the chair behind the desk is empty; Jim is sprawled along the loveseat, legs hanging off the end. Putting his PADD down on the edge of the desk, the doctor pulls over one of the chairs and rests a hand on Jim's forehead, giving a satisfied nod at the cool, dry skin. He hadn't been joking when he said the infection could break free -- the infected tissue had been removed, but medicine isn't foolproof, and alien cells could be hiding somewhere.

"Hey," he says softly, tapping his friend's shoulder. "Jim. Wake up, man." As much as he'd like to let him sleep, Bones knows the universe doesn't stop just because he has a patient to treat. There are things happening, now, swirling around them outside his control, and like it or not, his friend's the one conducting this symphony.

He pokes at Jim's shoulder again, pressing it a bit, hoping to jar him awake. It's worked before -- Jim usually comes to with a start, all wide blue eyes and flailing limbs as if someone's attacking him while he's asleep. This time, Jim only groans and moves sluggishly, arm coming around to cover his eyes.

"I thought I turned the lights down," he grumbles.

"Yeah. They turned up when I walked in."

"Computer, lights twenty percent," Jim calls to the empty air. The lights dim to a soft level, just enough light remaining for Bones to make out basic shapes. Jim scoots himself up the loveseat until his legs are resting on it and rubs his face with a hand. "What did you find out?"

He doesn't point out how haggard Jim looks, just grabs his PADD from the desk. The light from it shocks his eyes when it turns back on, and Jim winces back from the offending object. "Apparently, Katashi soil contains unique minerals that help promote cell growth in humans. The applications are endless, but they've been having problems extracting and synthesizing the stuff."

"Okay." He shifts a bit, grimacing as he does. "What does that have to do with dead plants and angry natives?"

"You're the genius," says Bones.

"Gee, thanks." Unable to find a comfortable position, he swings his legs around, planting his feet on the floor, leaning back. "Damn," he mutters, letting his head fall back and closing his eyes. His pallor has paled in the few minutes they've been talking, making him appear almost ghostly in the low light.

It takes a lot of self-control, but Bones keeps from throwing his PADD down and running his tricorder over his friend. Instead, he scrolls through some more data, looking for anything that may solve this puzzle. "Taking soil samples doesn't do much damage," he reads, "And their reports have been consistent with what they have to go through to study something like this."

"They're not kidnapping villagers, right?"

Bones snorts. "No, Jim, they're not kidnapping innocent villagers. All their research is at the cellular level; no people or creatures involved."

Jim dwells on this a minute, or maybe he's fallen back asleep; Bones knocks his knee with his own.

"I'm _thinking_."

Over thirty, and the good doctor's not above rolling his eyes. "Just checking."

Jim tips his head forward and glares, his retort interrupted by the door chiming. He turns toward it and sighs before speaking. "Enter."

Sliding doors woosh open to reveal Spock, his expression blank but tense at the edges. He enters quickly, doors closing behind him, and stands with his hands clasped behind his back as the lights brighten to normal levels. Bones takes his eyes off the Vulcan in time to watch Jim wince before sitting up straighter and pushing his exhaustion under a mask of command.

Confused, Spock looks between them. "Was there a reason the lights were at a lower level?"

"What do you have?" Jim asks with a wave of his hand. _Don't ask_, he doesn't say, and Spock will listen, won't ask, won't wonder. Until later, at a more appropriate – logical – time.

"Sensors did not reveal anything substantial, but Ensign Kai suggested testing remnants of the soil found on mine and Lt. Uhura's uniforms due to the condition of local plant life." He pauses, inclining his head a bit. "I regret I did not think of this myself, Captain, but I believe the results will give an explanation."

"Get on with it, man," grumbles Bones.

"According to records, Katashi soil contains a multitude of natural minerals not found on any other planet. Readings of the soil taken from our uniforms was unaltered, but did show adverse effects to foreign organisms when exposed to sunlight."

"And I, apparently, was?" Jim asks Bones.

"Could be." Bones consults his PADD, reading through results and protocols. "I don't see how them taking samples could impact the Katashi enough to make them this angry."

"If there is deception here, we must look at the possibility that the reports coming out of the facility have been falsified."

"We won't get the whole story until we get down there and see this place for ourselves." Jim stands and circles the desk, placing himself carefully in the chair.

"I still don't like you going down there, Jim," Bones says, standing. He scoots the chair back where it belongs while Spock watches, silent. Of all the times, the bastard chooses now to be quiet. Jim grins, leaning forward on the desk, and Bones knows _exactly_ where this is going. "Now you listen! I'm not following you on this crusade! Count me _out_."

"The captain does have a point. Since this facility is conducting medical research, you would be a vital member of the away team." If Vulcans could look smug, Bones is sure Spock would be sporting the expression now.

"Plus, what better way to keep an eye on me," Jim adds.

"I'll tell you how I'll look after you." Bones rounds the desk and puts a hand on Jim's forearm. "I'm taking you back to the medical bay _where you belong_."

Those blue eyes, normally so clear, darken, a storm rolling in over turbulent waters. He's seen that expression before, only a few times, when those strong, deep emotions kept locked away, rise to the surface. They remind Bones that his friend is more than a maverick in the captain's chair, but a troubled kid who never met his father but has always lived in his shadow.

"The only way you're stopping me, _doctor_, is if you relieve me of command." His voice holds a challenge, daring Bones to do it.

Bones holds steady. "Don't tempt me, Jim. I might just do that."

He meets Jim's eyes, trying to read what's going on behind them, figure out where his friend's gone. They're caught in a standoff, neither wishing to back down, both fueled by compassion for someone other than themselves to the point of violence -- a trait they share that usually strengthens their friendship.

The silence is broken by the chirping of the computer, then Uhura's voice. "Captain, there's a transmission for you. Should I put it through?"

Eyes still hard on Bones, he answers, "Yeah."

One of the walls flickers, a private viewscreen imbedded above the couch for private calls. The caller this time is Admiral Ninsei Chandra; Bones remembers him from the discipline committee so long ago. He releases Jim and steps out to the side, on the edge of view, and damnit, he may be pissed, but Jim is still the best guy he knows.

--

A swift breeze hits his face, momentum from the door closing behind Bones and Spock. Jim is momentarily reminded of summer in Iowa, when the air was as hot and suffocating as a crowded party, sweat dripping down the back of his neck, just waiting for that unseen hand to wave a brief, sweet breeze of relief. It'd come just before a storm, hazy clouds seem from miles away.

Jim feels the heaviness in the air, pressing into him from all around. Weary beyond expected, he waits for Chandra to start the conversation.

"Captain Kirk," the admiral starts, "I trust you are well?"

"As can be expected," he replies with a boyish smile. "How can the _Enterprise_ help you today?"

"Don't insult my intelligence, Kirk," snaps Chandra, anger hidden by diplomacy seeping out around the edges. "We didn't send you out there to side with the Katashi. You were sent to support Federation interests."

"By Admiral Pike," Jim points out. "Is there any reason you're calling instead of him?"

"The Asclepius facility is under my supervision. The minute this became a mess, I regained control over the mission, hoping to salvage the situation."

He shifts, mind whirling, trying to figure out how to play this. "Did you know the Katashi were unhappy? That this _negotiation_ was a set-up to attack?"

"Before or after you accused Commander Larass of bringing you there under false pretenses?"

This throws a wrench in his plans, but gives him one important piece of information: not only did Larass survive, but he's been in contact with Starfleet High Command. The thought _should_ mean something, but it's taking all his concentration to track the conversation at hand.

God, he's tired.

"I'll make this easy for you, Captain. You're done here. Not only did you undermine the Federation in front of an alien species, but you broke down peaceful communications. Report to the Qual'tal System for reassignment. This is non-negotiable. Under no circumstances are you to return to the surface."

Adrenalin erases all traces of fatigue and pain. "There is something _wrong_ going on down there, something _we _are responsible for!"

"You are mistaken, Captain. If you don't comply, I _will _place Commander Spock in command. And don't think your _friend_ Admiral Pike will be able to get you out of this one."

There is a time for discussion and a time for action. Fists balled on the desk, Jim centers himself, taking a calming breath.

"Admiral, I cannot stand idly by and allow innocent beings to be harmed. If this goes against the ideals of Starfleet, you won't have to kick me out," Jim states coolly.

And cuts the transmission.

He's on his own, now, eyes to the stars, waiting for the storm to arrive.

--

She isn't listening in, she's monitoring shipwide communications. Leaning close to the console, Nyota presses a finger to her open ear, blocking out the ambient din of the bridge, not wanting to miss a word, an inflection. Language is her study, not translation, but how it is used. She picks up the little things, meanings stuck between the lines.

Like the contempt behind the admiral's words, the forced energy behind Kirk's. She doesn't even hear the words, not really. This is what she fell in love with, this deeper, hidden language shared by all --

"Lt. Uhura."

She nearly jumps out of her chair, hand flying to hit capture before she loses the verbal dance. The same hand flies to her mouth when she realizes it will leave a trace, but, looking up into Spock's face, knows it no longer matters.

Familiarity keeps words from being exchanged. Though they can't see the speakers, it isn't hard to picture Admiral Chandra in his decorated office, pleasant words dripping with venom, Kirk leaning on the modest desk in his ready room, smirking the entire time.

Spock and McCoy lean forward, close enough to hear the voices at lower volume. Spock leans so close she can feel his warm breath on her cheek. Throughout the exchange, McCoy grumbles until Kirk declares the final words of rebellion and cuts off the link -- then, he's speechless for a beat.

"That damn fool!" he shouts, shaking his head. Then, quieter, "He's gonna get us all court martialed over this damn planet."

"You rather he allowed this deception to continue?" Spock asks.

"No," McCoy decides. "He couldn't be Jim if he did."

"You're actually _considering _this?" Nyota turns from her station to face them, arms crossed tightly.

"Sooner or later, those people down there are gonna run out of food. And trust me, that makes people pissed off. If we don't go back, they'll keep attacking the place until they're all killed. That sit okay with you, Uhura?" rants McCoy. "Sometimes, you've gotta throw out the damn rule book."

--

Starfleet officers on Katash would see a shuttlecraft coming from beyond the atmosphere, pick up the signature of a transporter beam within the ring of the city itself. It takes a sly move by Chekov to get them onto the planet without detection, modifications done by Scotty allowing them to beam in under the cover of the thick rainforest out past the fields of dead, rotten foodstuffs. The weather's turned hot, compressed and humid under the canopy of old, alien trees, and the group of five -- Jim, Spock, McCoy, and two ensigns from security, O'Hara and Milwinski -- trek through the uneven ground with a bit more luck than on the previous trip.

Emerging on the far edge of the growing fields, Jim is alert enough to take in the condition of the abandoned crops. His frame of reference is limited to those long, neat green rows surrounding Riverside, but plants seem to have similarities across the galaxy. Like long, bowed stalks. Leaves have fallen onto the ground along with swollen round things. Once bright purple, they are now the color of the mud they sit on.

He crouches, picking one up and turning it over in his hands.

"I wouldn't advise doing that," Bones comments. "We don't know anything about it. Could be poisonous to humans."

Jim ignores him, poking the thing with his finger; thick red sludge leaks out into his palm with a stink so foul, he throws it to the ground and wrinkles his nose. Wiping his hands on his pants, he stands. "I don't think it's poisonous, Bones. Look down the rows."

His companions follow his line of sight towards the town, where the ground becomes less and less dotted by the discarded food.

"Jesus," breathes Bones. "They're eating the stuff."

_Exactly_, Jim wants to say. Wants to take a picture and send it to Admiral Chandra and whomever else he can think of. _Look. They're eating rotten food off the ground. _

He stays for a moment, trying to add things up in his head, then steps forward.

By the time they emerge at the edge of Thi'lik'ah, their boots are covered in what looks like blood.


	5. Chapter 5

Sorry I haven't replied to reviews just yet – I will, promise! But let me say this: thank you! Your comments help me see the good and bad, and have been very helpful while writing my new fic. So, again, thanks!

**Chapter Five. **

"Lieutenant, we're being hailed."

Sulu rests his head on a fist, leaning back in a way completely unbecoming of his station, but right now, who's going to say anything?

"How many times is that, now?" Chekov asks, looking up from his display, stylus dancing between his fingers.

"Six," drawls Sulu.

"They must very much like to talk to the Keptin."

"I take it we're not answering," Uhura comments. She, too, sits slumped, elbow resting on her station, playing with one of her earrings -- today's are a brilliant shade of sunrise -- turning the delicate stone over in her hands.

"Sooner or later, they're going to send a ship to find us," someone says. No one turns to find the speaker; they've all had the same thought on their minds since the away team became specs of dust flying through space.

**--**

Buildings may change shape, but a town is a town -- groups of homes, of shops and public buildings, wide tracks of dirt or stone marking streets -- and they enter in the alleys, those narrow pathways created from years and years of people wandering through wild grasses. The backs of buildings are the same, though these are dotted here and there with no real plan or grid to go by. It causes them to weave instead of moving more directly, rounding buildings where they can. Underfoot, grasses are browns and yellows, the taller stalks drooping, bowing to the sun.

Spock leads, phaser at the ready, steps sure and confident. He's followed by the two security men, then Bones, Jim happily taking up the rear. If anyone is curious, they're too focused on the mission to ask anything, leaving the captain to stumble without witness.

The heat isn't that bad -- he's lived through worse under the bleaching Midwestern sun -- but he feels like his blood's boiling in his veins. And the sun isn't shimmering, it's his vision that started swimming ten minutes ago, making everything blur in and out of focus. As long as he stays behind Bones, keeps everyone's focus on what they're doing instead of the rapid decline of their captain, everything will be _fine_.

_Make it through this_, he tells himself, _because failure isn't an option anymore._

When the line halts, he runs right into Bones -- _great_ -- stumbles backwards, and almost falls right on his ass. Bones' hand is wrapped around his arm, holding him up, the only thing between him and a spill. Jim smirks and gathers his feet under him, tests them before reaching up and pulling the doctor's fingers off.

"Something you're not telling me, Jim?" he grumbles. It brings everyone's attention to him, exactly what he _didn't_ want, and he straightens under the pressure of additional eyes.

He's trying to figure out what to say -- being truthful isn't an option -- when Spock whirls around, tricorder in hand, the device letting out a series of beeps.

"What is it?" Jim asks, sidestepping Bones to approach his first officer.

"I am picking up an interplanetary signal," he reports with -- is that a frown? "There is a large amount of energy being consumed in the general area as well."

"Don't they have their own communications equipment?" Ensign O'Hara asks. "What's so odd about that?"

"A census of the town was taken before chosen as a location for the research facility. While it was reported they had communications equipment, the readings for this device exceed recorded levels."

Jim looks between Spock and the two ensigns, O'Hara and Milwinski; sometimes, being captain means translating between departments. "They can call between each other, but this stuff's way advanced for this culture."

"Meaning it came from somewhere else," O'Hara finishes.

Spock nods.

It's a curious development, to be sure. Where would the Katashi get such equipment, and, more importantly, _why_?

"Where?" is all he asks. The world's swirling a bit, and getting them focused on something else will stop Bones from staring at him, one hand, Jim is sure, resting on a hypo hidden in his pocket.

--

Sneaking around makes him feel like a kid again, though the dry heat and vegetation doesn't really resemble the wet marshes and dripping humidity of Georgia in the summertime. Running through the tall grass under old trees, sneaking with his best friend, Lenny McCoy would steal peaches from a nearby farm, always denying it despite the peach juice running down his chin.

This isn't quite the same, though his best friend remains his partner-in-crime. And there's no promise of sweet Georgia peaches -- his mouth waters just thinking about them -- just the need to solve a puzzle. While the medical aspect certainly intrigues him, he finds himself increasingly worried -- no, _troubled_ -- by said friend.

Usually in the lead, excited about the task at hand, Jim's now taking up the rear, trying to fade out of mind. He thinks McCoy can't see him stumbling, can't see the flushed cheeks or the way his eyes slide in and out of focus. The kid forgets McCoy is a _father_, and even if Joanna was ripped from his life when she was two, he still developed those extra senses. He doesn't think of Jim as a child, not his, but he does pay extra attention. Father figure, sure, _maybe_, but friend overall.

While Spock leads them around the curves, wishing they were corners they could hide behind, McCoy keeps Jim at arm's length, unwilling to let him out of sight again.

They're lucky this part of town isn't heavily trafficked; farther east, the streets are full of Katashi going about their day. Here, the amount of people seen can be counted on one hand, a fact that only supports the idea that someone would hide things here.

"The signal is coming from that location." He points to an adjacent building.

"Is there anyone inside?" Jim voices from beside McCoy.

"According to this instrumentation, there are no life forms inside. But I must remind you the sensor capabilities of this instrument are not as sophisticated as the _Enterprise_'s."

"It's what we've got," Jim shrugs.

Spock takes that as word to go forward. They circle the last building and stop at the entrance.

"Great," remarks McCoy, "it's locked."

"Perhaps I can circumvent the security system," tries Spock.

Jim pushes past and stands before the locked door and the keypad next to it displaying an alien language in glowing, foreign, shapes. He seems to be a frozen statue, hands on his hips, those fevered eyes suddenly laser focused.

There was a whole semester spent like this when Jim was taking advanced computer engineering their second year. He'd sit with his PADD, going over operational codes and mathematic equations, usually in his head. He passed the class, created a new standard in the curriculum, and -- McCoy wonders why he never made the connection before -- probably learned what he needed to hack the _Kobyashi Maru_.

After a second, Jim begins pressing buttons, screens flashing at surprising speed. A red box comes up and Bones holds his breath -- it's gone in a second, and the doors open with a hiss.

The kid turns to them, smile wide on his pale face.

"Bingo."

And damn if he's not a genius under that planet-sized ego.

--

Inside, the air is cool.

It's such a welcomed relief, Jim stops just inside the door and tilts his head against the wall. The stone's cold against his forehead, and he can't help letting out a pleasurable groan. Aches have gotten to the point where he'd like nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for a day, but the real problem is the stitched wound in his side. It's a constant burning that catches his breath in his throat whenever they move too fast, a flame that reminds him he's still alive.

"Captain, if you -- "

"I'm fine," he mumbles to the wall. He pushes back and tries to reassure his companions, but can tell it falls short by their expressions.

"Go. Find out what the hell's in here. We'll guard the door," Bones says -- _orders_ -- and even if he's never taken a command course, he's run surgeries enough to get the tone down.

"We will contact you when we find something." Then Spock, O'Hara, and Milwinski are gone, figments disappearing into the dark.

As soon as they're gone, Bones stands in front of Jim, close enough to force him against the wall.

"No bullshit, Jim. You've been bumbling around since we got down here," he barks.

"Aww, Bones, what would I do without you?" Jim tries to grin.

"Don't give me that crap." Bones places a hand near the wound, probing, but it feels like he's stabbed Jim. His breath rushes out of him with a gasp, and Jim slouches into the wall. The sound of his own blood pounding in his ears blocks out Bones' exclamation of surprise, and he can feel himself slipping --

_No! Can't stop yet!_

Blinking back tears, Jim pushes himself up the wall and focuses on calming his breathing.

"Jim, hey, Jim, you with me?" Anger turned to concern, Bones has leaned down, hand on Jim's right shoulder, tricorder off his belt. Back with it, Jim pushes the thing away.

"That wasn't fun," he remarks.

"With all those fights you've been in, I shouldn't be surprised you have a high tolerance for pain," Bones says dryly.

"You know me, can't do what's expected."

Bones snorts. He's putting away his device when his eye catches something on the display -- he frowns, scrolls through it again, and snaps his gaze up to Jim's face.

"What?" Jim frowns himself.

"We need to get you back to -- "

"I'm not going back -- "

" -- to the medbay -- "

" -- to the ship. I can handle -- "

" -- I don't understand these readings -- "

" -- and this is more important -- "

" -- and, damnit, Jim, I'm not gonna let you die!"

His voice reverberates in the cramped entrance, the words thick with concern and rolling Southern vowels. The space feels impossibly small, their breath hot and almost shared, they're standing so close. The words hang heavy, an elephant in the room, the reality of the situation hitting both of them.

"Doctor?" comes the clipped, monotone voice of Spock. He stands just down the hallway, the security officers behind him. "We have found the equipment. Ensigns O'Hara and Milwinski will guard the entrance."

"Good," says Jim. He breaks out of Bones' hold, slips away, giving himself a pep-talk as he pushes past Spock, down the hallway, wondering how he missed the point when Bones went from friend to family.

--

There remain complexities of human behavior he still cannot grasp, actions that strike him as illogical and random, decisions made based on emotion and not the facts at hand. Is denial intentional, or the byproduct of hope in the face of great adversity? And how does one feel hopeful when several negative factors exist?

For example, the captain. By observation, Spock can tell the man is not well. Outward signs of fever and stiffness in the limbs are obvious, even to one only schooled in the basics of human physiology. The doctor's outburst was loud enough for Spock to overhear; the implications were clear.

And yet, the man continues to push ahead, intent on finding out what's going on, on solving this problem, saving these people from starvation and death. Is he in denial of the severity of his health, or does it not matter?

"Captain," Spock starts, "perhaps Dr. McCoy is correct -- "

"Damn right," mumbles McCoy.

" -- in suggesting you return to the ship."

Kirk stops.

"You said you don't understand the readings, right, Bones?" he asks. "Which means whatever's going on is related to what is going on _here_. It's logic, Spock. Plus, I've been banged up worse before and feel better already." He sighs and resumes walking.

"You're not a cadet anymore, Jim. You're responsible for more, now," states McCoy.

"I know that."

"Then what -- "

"Who better to take care of me than you? I'm fine. Feeling better ever since we got inside. Figure _that_ out."

There is a note of finality in his tone, one McCoy seems to respect, though the doctor's expression suggests he has more to say.

It is then they arrive in one of the larger rooms, this one filled with advanced communications equipment. Light from the various displays filter over their faces as each take in the improbable.

Most Katashi technologies are concentrated in the larger metropolises, reserved for the wealthy. This town, while fairly large, remains an agricultural community, many of the residents poorer. The meeting hall was commissioned by the planetary government, and remains the largest structure in town.

This, though, is not native Katashi technology.

"What the hell?" Kirk exclaims, eyes sweeping over the various consuls.

"Goddamn," comments McCoy.

"Spock, I wanna see something. Can you pull up the outgoing transmissions log? Find out how they're sending messages?"

The Vulcan takes a seat, hands moving confidently over the consuls, the language switching to Standard after a few moments. "It appears there are several re-routed through the nearest Starbase. This could account for the impression that they were sent by the facility."

"They hacked the security?" Kirk asks.

"It appears so."

"How the hell did they manage that? And _why_?" McCoy voices.

"There is another transmission -- "

A yell echoes down the hall, slips through the door. All three turn, quandary forgotten.

Spock pulls his communicator from his belt and snaps it open. "O'Hara, report."

"Several Katashi -- back-up -- " O'Hara's voice is tiny, cut off with a loud crash.

The abrupt cut spurs them into action. Spock stands and pulls out his phaser in one fluid motion, observes Kirk do the same. McCoy, who stated that he's a doctor and not a soldier, lets them pass, preferring to take up the rear and mend the wounded, should it come to that. Spock allows him the shelter; at least the man knows his strengths and sticks to them.

Here, in the dim hallways, there is more room to make a sound tactical assault. Driven by the peril of their crewmen, they move quickly, jumping from doorway to doorway, phasers at the ready. Spock wishes there were more light, but admits it does work to their advantage; he and Kirk go back and forth, move the distance as ghosts in the dark.

Alien voices filter down to them, whispers on the air. It does not take a xenoliguist to figure out what they're saying -- they are searching for others, have neutralized those guarding the entrance. There are two voices, maybe three, but that only means there are six or seven, as. Only a force that large could make it this far past two trained security officers.

The darkness isn't so complete that Spock can't make out the shape of Kirk in a doorway across from him. They can't be more than three, maybe for meters from the approaching Katashi, and this is when training kicks in. _Wait until you have a visual_.

One comes into view. Two. Spock turns from his cover and lets off a quick succession of shots -- he hits one, the other taking a shot from Kirk across the way. With their location known, the others begin shooting at them, their beams unable to bend around corners. Two down, they wait for a break in shots before ducking around their shelter and letting off a handful of their own. Back, and forth, until one breaks the pattern and barrels into Spock, knocking him out into the openness of the single hallway, his phaser clattering to the ground, sliding out of reach.

Spock recovers quickly, his greater strength working to his advantage. A jab here. Punch, kick. The Katashi fights back admirably, but is no match for Vulcan martial arts. He's down in under a second, freeing Spock to recover his phaser and move on to the next.

Across from him, Kirk has taken out another with a skilled phaser shot. A fifth grabs his arms; Kirk twists around, bringing the native with him. He slams the Katashi into the wall, once, twice; the man attempts a head-but, but Kirk easily avoids it. The Katashi slams him again, grabs his phaser, and fires into the being's midsection.

With the immediate threat neutralized, Kirk leans against the wall, panting. Spock wants to check on him, but the silent crew-members down near the entrance are a more urgent concern.

"Doctor McCoy," Spock says over his shoulder. "I believe the ensigns would appreciate your attention."

"There'll be more where they came from," Kirk breaths. "When these guys don't report back, they'll know something's up."

"The question is, who is _they_?"

--

She's ignored seven hails from Federation vessels and their captains, but none have come for the last twenty minutes. Nyota Uhura knows this is a bad sign, that they've given up on simply calling over to the _Enterprise_ and, probably, have decided a more direct approach is needed. For once, she's elated she's not in charge, and feels this emotion's given her greater insight into why Kirk can be so flippant while on duty.

They all have their coping mechanisms.

Another call lights up on her screen, and she's halfway to ignoring it when she notices it's not from another ship, but from the surface. _Spock_. Him being part of frequent away teams weighs heavy on her heart, threatens to rip it apart.

"Spock to _Enterprise_," his voice comes straight through her ear.

"_Enterprise _here." She tries to keep the tremble from her voice, the emotion and _worry_.

"I am sending information to you. Are you receiving?"

Uhura turns to an officer on her right. _Are you getting this?_ The officer nods, thick braids on her head catching dancing lights as her head moves.

"Yes. What, exactly, are we receiving?" she asks.

"Communications logs. We need to know how the Katashi in this town obtained codes to Starfleet transmissions protocols. The information may be imbedded in these logs."

"Okay." Uhura wants to talk more, to know he's okay. But there's noise on the other end; she can hear Kirk shouting something, the grumble of McCoy in the background. "The fleet has stopped hailing us. Chekov believes they'll send a ship. What are our orders?"

A smattering of voices. Then, "Keep the bastards off the ship until we return."

Uhura allows a smile. The words are foreign coming from Spock's mouth, but taste delicious.

--

They mourn the loss of O'Hara the best they can, tight lips, downcast eyes as Bones works on Milwinski, mending a broken bone, a black eye. The injured man sputters about how _O'Hara jumped in front of me_ and _he saved me, man_. How _they came out of nowhere_ that suggests a secondary entrance yet undiscovered. Jim stands off to the side, arms crossed, leaning a shoulder against the wall. It isn't his first loss as captain, but hurts just the same. Bones' words come back to him, _you're responsible for more, now,_ and doesn't he feel it.

There's nothing to cover O'Hara's body with, so he simply lays where he fell, eyes closed moments after Bones declared him dead. Spock is in the hallway behind them, examining the dead Katashi, searching for clues, anything that may give them an idea of _who_ sent them, what the story is behind all this subterfuge.

When he was nine, Jim's mother took him to a magic show during a rare extended leave home. He remembers the darkness of the theater, the thick acidity of smoke in his throat, the scent of his mother's hair. Snuggled against her on one side, Jim watched with fascination as the man on the stage made things disappear into thin air. Not with technology or the newest gadget, but _magic. _

And he remembers Sam swatting him on the shoulder outside after the show finished and Jim gushed to Mom about how cool that was and _is magic real_? His older brother took his job seriously, and the fourteen year old laughed as he told Jim it was all a _trick_, that magic wasn't real, that the key, he said, is misdirection. _Pay attention to what he's not looking at next time_, was his advice.

But the spell had been undone. Jim's mind, so fast and always in motion, could never look at a magic show the same way again.

Leaning against the stone wall in the strange Katashi building, he lets his eyes drift closed and _thinks_. Runs everything through his head like a movie, looking for all the things he _shouldn't_. The people in the audience during the initial meeting. Larass when the fighting broke out. The condition of Spock and Uhura when they returned. What had Spock said? _I regret I did not think of this myself, Captain, but I believe the results will give an explanation. _What did he mean by that? Were he and Uhura affected in some way through contact with the soil? All three of them returned with cuts and bruises; is that all it takes? An open wound of some kind?

"Bones," he says, opening his eyes. God, is that his voice? No wonder his friend's freaking out; he sounds like a drunk bullfrog.

"What is it, Jim? I'm kinda busy here." Bones doesn't look up from where he's trying to set Milwinski's broken arm without the aid of more than a hypospray full of morphine. Risking the flash of pain from movement, Jim pushes off the wall and stands over the pair.

"Did you look over Spock and Uhura when we got back to the ship?" he asks.

Bones pauses. "I was busy, remember? Oh, wait, you _don't_."

"Spock said something about not thinking up something himself. That doesn't sound like him, right? Gave me the impression that maybe he was being affected by something contracted down here."

Angry, Bones looks over his shoulder. "Yeah, fine. I messed up. Rub it in my face, why don't you."

"Oh, c'mon, man! I'm just – " Jim sighs, exasperated. "Think this through with me, okay?"

He hopes Bones got the message. _I'm not mad, I don't care._ There are bigger things to worry about here than if Bones followed protocol hours and days ago when he had a dying captain to deal with. _Dying_. There's a word Jim Kirk doesn't wrestle with much. Hurt, sure. Drunk, absolutely.

Bones grunts, and returns to Milwinski.

"We know sunlight's a key, right? And I didn't start feeling like shit until we got down here," – Bones turns a sharp eye at this rare admission of less than perfect – "but felt better when we got inside. Spock says something about being under the affect of something." He cuts off, suddenly frustrated with himself. "Damnit, I wish we knew more." Because now it's not just him. It's O'Hara dead on the ground. It's Milwinski with a broken arm. Spock and Uhura slowed by something he can't identify, can't fight with his fists.

And it's killing him being this helpless.

A thought comes to him. "How old did those fields look? Four, maybe five years, tops, right?"

"I'm a doctor, Jim, not a farmer. You're from Iowa – what do you think?" grumbles Bones. There's a snap and a yelp, then Milwinski falls limp to the floor, Bones moving just in time to catch his head and lower it gently to the ground. "Not much more I can do for him here. Good idea to get them back to the ship."

He's standing face to face with Jim, now, brushing his hands against each other. "Okay, so they didn't farm much before. What's that got to do with anything?"

"Spock," Jim calls down the hall. The Vulcan comes into view a few seconds later, hands empty.

"I could not find any identification on any of the bodies," he reports. "Or information of any kind that would be helpful to us."

"How long has the research facility been here?" Jim asks.

There's a moment when he can almost _see_ the wheels turning in Spock's head. "I believe it began operations in 2255; I am sorry I cannot recall the exact stardate."

But that's all Jim needs. He feels lighter, all the pieces coming together in his head – and while he may not know _who_ is behind this, he has a pretty good idea as to _what_.

–

When the call comes in, Uhura almost misses it. She hasn't been paying attention to that function; instead, she's been going through the data Spock sent. The light pulsates a few times before she notices, and she snatches her earpiece from the desktop while pulling up the information on a separate screen.

"We're being hailed by the Asclepius facility," she says aloud, flabbergasted.

Sulu straightens in his seat, drooping eyes suddenly alert. "Put it on the viewscreen."

The last time Nyota saw Commander Larass, he'd been an asshole, but in one piece, with dark, closely-cropped hair, tanned skin, and a superior smile. The man staring at them via the front viewscreen slightly resembles the commander; his hair is mussed, uniform shirt bloody and full of dirt. That smile has been replaced with a frown, worry written across his features.

"Where is Captain Kirk?" he demands without preamble. His voice is venom, desperation given a sound. "Where is he?"

"The captain is unavailable at the moment," Sulu replies. "I'm Lt. Sulu."

"Unavailable?" echoes Larass. "Unavailable? What the hell does that mean?"

"It means," Sulu remarks dryly, "that he is not here at the moment."

Thrown into this, Sulu is doing remarkably well; Nyota makes a mental note to speak with Kirk about a commendation when this is all over, because being dressed down by a superior officer while your captain's running around off-world against orders is, well, a lot to handle. He takes Larass' shouting with flying colors, sliding out of his chair to stand before the screen with a grace developed through years of martial arts training.

"Damnit, we've been infiltrated by a group of Katashi. _Armed._ Didn't we warn you this could happen? Instead, your captain says some bullshit about how I faked a transmission. How that guy got to be – "

"That's _Captain _Kirk to you," Sulu interrupts.

The sharp snap to Sulu's voice pulls Larass down from his tirade. He blinks, realizing where he's gone, as his face reddens. "I'm sorry. We've managed to keep them out of the central labs, got out everyone we could. They, they have most of our codes."

"And how did that happen, _Commander_," Nyota asks, standing. She comes down to stand next to Sulu, feeling a weight drop onto her shoulders the instant she's in front of the viewscreen. At the Academy, she took a few command-track classes, just enough to round out her course load, but none of them prepared her for the real situation. In his gold shirt, Sulu makes this look _easy_.

"We have evidence that the Katashi were able to re-route their message through Starbase 47, changing the encoding to make it look like _you_ sent it. How would a farming community be able to do that?" she continues.

On screen, Larass mumbles something. Behind him, a thumping grows increasingly louder.

"What was that?" Sulu prompts.

"It was me," he repeats. "Okay! It was me!" the man shouts. "I wanted a promotion, something to get me off this damn planet, and they agreed to help. To get MacCross out of the way. But then, he started asking things of me. Information here, a code there. And threatened to tell Starfleet Command, to get me fired, _court martialed_, if I didn't - "

The thumping's on top of him when the transmission ends.

Now, Nyota fully understands the meaning of _a hell of your own making_.


	6. Chapter 6

Sorry! I was dead after yesterday's shift, and busy today. Was all ready to upload when I slammed my finger in a door....let's just say it isn't pleasant! Am hunting and pecking to post this for y'all! I may post the next chapter early to make up for it. Depends on how well you bribe me!

Thanks, Madblogger for reminding me some people are eager to read more. ;)

**Chapter Six.**

McCoy wishes they could stay inside indefinitely.

Milwinski's still passed out on the floor; he's too still next to the body of O'Hara for McCoy's comfort. Even after all these years, losing someone's hard, even if he had nothing to do with it. Comfort around the dead is different than being comfortable with them; he's moved down the hallway to go through the clothes of the dead Katashi to keep from obsessing over watching Milwinski's chest move.

Jim hasn't shared anything, but McCoy knows he's crafting an insane plan in that crazy head of his, one he will object to but ultimately follow. He's moved to the wall, back pressed against it, using it as a pillow while he rests his eyes. Every few steps, Bones glances over his shoulder at him, making sure he's still upright, that Milwinski's still breathing – _up, down, up_ – then goes back to searching.

"Doctor," Spock voices, observing. "Do you doubt my thoroughness?"

"Huh?"

"I have already checked them."

"Oh. Just needed a distraction," admits McCoy. He straightens immediately, a bit sheepish. Spock's expression shows he doesn't get it, doesn't understand this need to keep the mind busy.

He's saved from having to explain – again – one of humanity's nuances, by Jim's communicator beeping.

"Kirk, here," he answers, turning back toward the door. The rest of the conversation's a line of mumbles and heightened tones; McCoy turns to Spock, puzzlement scattered across his features. The conversation lasts maybe thirty seconds, during which Bones watches Jim stand straighter and straighter, until he's at his full height, shoulders squared. When he turns to them, he's back in captain mode, narrowed eyes full of bare determination.

"What was that all about?" asks McCoy.

"Larass just admitted to, get this, not only getting MacCross to leave, but giving the Katashi Starfleet codes," he grins. "Can you believe this guy? He gets in my face about the faked transmission and then admits to _this_?"

"Okay, mystery solved. He gives us the names of the guys he gave codes to and we get to go back to the ship."

"They're holding him and the scientists hostage."

"Great," McCoy deadpans, sarcastic. "This is all we need, a rescue mission. Have you noticed there are just three of us now? Do you honestly expect _us_ to go up there and rescue them?" McCoy crosses his arms, as if that's the end of it.

"Doctor McCoy has a point. We are outmatched due to the loss of Engisns O'Hara and Milwinski." Spock speaks up.

"So you're suggesting we just let them fend for themselves because we _don't like them_?" Kirk shakes his head. He checks his phaser for charge, pointing it at some unseen enemy.

--

The lack of movement has pulled Scotty from Engineering, those still, silent warp cores unable to hold his attention any longer. Keeping standard orbit requires little more than computer-controlled impulse bursts, monitored from the bridge by Sulu, giving Scotty – still technically on duty – little to do. Oh, he could be tinkering away, lost for hours in schematics and mathematical equations, but knowing what is going on, even the little bit that's filtered down to his department, has his nerves a bit tight.

So he's on the bridge, playing around with the swirling numbers on the clear board just behind Uhura, just pushing them around, reshaping them into constructs he learned in school. They're comfortable, known, some stability when things are so up in the air.

He's standing there when Uhura swivels in her seat, face almost ashen, expression terse. "I'm picking up comm chatter," she reports just as Chekov bounces straight up and hits a few buttons on his screen.

"Sir, I am detecting a starship in warp close to our location!" All eyes are on him as he pulls up more information. "Approaching at warp three. Estimated arrival in seven minutes."

"Uhura, contact the away team," Sulu orders.

Scotty turns in time to see Uhura work her magic, movements rigid, precise. _Perfect Starfleet composure_, he thinks, remembering all those sober, uptight teachers he fought against.

"You're connected," she reports.

Standing on the bridge, Scotty is in the middle of a play, the actors moving and speaking around, not to, him. This is not his place, and he longs for the twisting metal and sleek machinery of engineering, but his curiosity keeps him rooted to the spot.

"Sulu? What's going on?" Even from the planet below, the Captain's larger than life, his voice bouncing off the walls. "Report."

"Up until a half hour ago, we were being hailed by Starfleet Command. Lt. Uhura recorded them as being from Admiral Chandra's office, but did not respond. Chekov has reported that a ship is now on it's way to our position and will be here in – " he looks over to the tactical officer.

"Six minutes, sir," Chekov supplies.

On the com, Kirk mutters a curse. "Here to stop us, I suspect. We're on our way to the facility now. Hold them off until we can secure the hostages and find out who's behind all this."

"Sir," Sulu says softly. "How do you suggest we do that?"

You can almost _hear_ the chuckle in Kirk's voice. "Break the rules."

--

Three guards stand outside the main entrance to the boxy white Federation building, gleaming side panels reflecting sunlight against the greens and browns of the hillside. Now that he knows what to pay attention to, Jim spots the holes in the landscape where plants have died and re-grown. How has such a lush, colorful landscape existed on this planet, when the very soil under their feet works against anything new?

Maybe, he thinks, it takes years and years of fighting against it to grow immune; in ten, maybe fifteen years, the crops will grow tall and full. Or, on the other hand, perhaps this is a recent problem, something plaguing the planet they truly need help for but were too proud to ask for.

As soon as he entertains the thought, it flies away, a whisper on the wind. Try as he might, he can't catch it, his hand falling short with each reach. As Spock leads, Jim watches with detached interest, each body a piece on a chess board; Spock lets off a few shots, blocks a physical attack by the closest still standing. His moves are purely defensive – Jim would move differently, but then again, he holds a different anger, learned not from a father or teacher but because of one.

An elbow in the back causes a purely reflective move; he whirls and grabs and –

"Ow, ow, goddamnit, Jim! What's gotten into you!" shouts Bones. Bones, his friend. Like a rubber band stretched too far, Jim snaps back to the present and stops, mid-motion. "Spock's taking on all those guys by himself and you're attacking _me_!"

Things have gone soupy, wavy, like looking in the distance through the waves coming off hot asphalt. The figures in front of him are tall and thin, indistinguishable from each other, arms and legs spaghetti noodles swinging through the air. The elbow hits him again, but isn't able to jar him back this time; a shake on the shoulder – God, he's so damn _tired_! – loud sounds right in his ear his brain can't translate.

" – get him out of the sun!" the voice moves farther away, drags him, moves him despite his legs not listening to commands. Shouldn't walking be easier than this?

Sand and dirt gather beneath his feet, building up under the heels of his boots, the world so bright and –

Darkness slams into Jim full-force, his body relaxing, taking stock, falling back into itself. Rips mend, holes sew themselves up, and those sounds break up into words.

"Damnit. He can't take much more of the damn sunlight. Sunlight! We wiped out XP on Earth a century ago," Bones is grumbling near Jim's right ear.

"I doubt the captain has developed xeroderma pigmentosum," Spock remarks, and damn if it doesn't sound sarcastic.

When Jim's eyes finally decide to focus, he's staring into Bone's brown ones and the waving white shape of that damn scanner; he pushes it out of the way, takes a few deep breaths – the stitch in his side's gone numb – and watches the world clarify around him.

This isn't the dark stone of a Katashi building. Here, the walls are made of metal paneling, cool, beige, and completely boring – a hallmark of Federation thinking. Keep calm through design, focus on exploration and scientific discovery, not the aesthetics, or rather lack of, your surroundings. The air's a regulated twenty-one degrees Celsius, not too hot or cool, comfortable to most species. Sitting against the wall, Jim feels himself cool down, calm down, regain control.

He pushes Bones away and slides up the wall. "Bones, _Bones_, I'm fine."

"You look like the walking dead, Jim. It might not be XP, but it's got the same characteristics. The damn sunlight's killing off cells, and pretty soon, you won't be able to remake them fast enough."

A hundred feet away, a computer terminal sends rays of bright white light into the dim corridor, set in the wall before a set of clear doors; through them, work terminals and desks dot a wide open floor, offices set in the back wall. There must be more halls off it, intersecting lines of a complex web, but they need to be sure. Standing before it, Jim puts in a code handed down during his security orientation – the secrets and authorizations you get as a captain gave new insight into how _dangerous_ the job can be – and smirks at how easy it is to get into the facility's computer.

Navigating through administrative screens and logs, he doesn't hear Spock and Bones come up behind him, one over each shoulder, leaning close. Tapping the touchscreen, Jim finds the schematics, and glances at his companions. Their faces are ghostly, catching the screen's light and throwing it into deep lines of exhaustion.

"Computer, what is the location of Commander Larass?" he asks, turning back to the terminal.

"Commander Larass is located in Lab 23." As it speaks, the route becomes highlighted in blue, a snake slithering through three workrooms before ending near the center of the building.

It also shows lifeforms.

"Captain, the intruders have been alerted to our presence," intones Spock, deep voice rumbling over Jim's shoulder. A long finger points to the group of red dots approaching their location. "It would be wise to remain behind these doors as long as possible."

"And then what? Hope they're lousy shots?" Bones grumbles.

"I can open one of them, use the other as cover. They should be strong enough, right?" Jim looks over his shoulder at Spock.

The Vulcan nods. Jim hits a few buttons, overriding the computer so only one door unlocks. It slides open with a hiss, the sounds of approaching beings echoing through the empty workroom. Jim checks his phaser, then turns to Bones.

"I know you don't like it, man, but – "

"Oh, stop it. You're breaking my heart," interrupts Bones. He pulls a phaser from his own belt and lets it sit heavy in his hands, staring at the silver chrome and flipping mechanics. Since joining Starfleet, he'd let Jim know his position on phasers – _it's all fine and good for you, but I'm a _doctor_, Jim _– doing the bare minimum requirements for officers serving on starships, opting out of advanced weaponry or extra time to improve his aim.

"Hey," Jim says, trying to pull Bones from whatever he's thinking. "Thanks."

"Thank me when we're out of this mess," quips the doctor.

Jim takes the lead, back pressed against the closed door, phaser ready. Spock's next, ready to cover from above, leaving Bones near the corner, hands unsteady, mind reeling. The sheer insanity of the plan has his hands shaking, wondering if _he'll_ need a doctor by the time they're through.

The Katashi come in a hail of phaser fire, bright bolts set to kill pinging off the walls, burning scorch marks into pristine beige paneling. Firing into the hall gives them the tactical advantage, the men using various desks as cover as they fire at the doors. Jim feels each vibrate through the compressed carbonate, black dots marring the smooth surface. Each hit comes with a burst of heat; he takes a step forward for comfort, not needing the physical reminders of each incoming shot.

Leaning around the door, he lets off a few shots of his own; the first goes wide, the second connects, sending a man tumbling backwards over the desk, landing in a heap on the floor next to it. When Jim tucks back behind their temporary cover, Spock slides around him, waits until the last return shot comes, then swivels out to gun down another two.

Boots sound in an unseen hallway.

"They're just going to keep sending reinforcements," Jim observes. "We have to get through them to the other side."

"Trapping them behind us," breathes Spock. There's a note of approval in his voice that gives Jim hope. If they can get most of the intruders stuck here, behind them, in the first workroom, they should be able to move forward without worrying about this group. But the plan requires someone to be left behind, to hold them off until the lab containing Larass and the sequestered workers can be reached.

As well as the mastermind behind this.

He turns to Bones and waves an arm. "Head for the hall on the left. We'll cover you."

"Jim, I believe it would be best if you were to go first. We can move faster than you, and will require less coverage," Spock says.

Jim opens his mouth to argue, but is stopped by a hand on his shoulder. "He's right, Jim." Bones squeezes his shoulder for a second, then takes up the position vacated as Spock moves forward, the tip of his phaser sticking out past the edge of the door.

"You follow as soon as you can. That's an order." And Jim sets off running for the first desk as Spock lets off cover fire at his back. Running takes the wind out of him, his wounded side flaring as he pushes his tired body towards cover; he slides, falls to his knees, and hits the desk so hard, his teeth rattle and he blacks out for a second.

The intruders fire back, shots hitting the desktop, whizzing by his head. He gulps in air, sucking it down greedily, and gets to his feet. Waits a second. When return fire starts, he darts for the next desk, turning his head for a moment to memorize the positions of his enemies. Nine Katashi, with their deep red hair and wild, red eyes, have split their focus between Spock and Bones in the doorway and Jim dashing through the room. _Good_, Jim thinks, heading for the hallway.

He ducks to rest behind the last desk before the gaping hole of the hallway, panting from the exertion. Looking down, he notes the dots of blood seeping through the gold of his shirt and lifts the hem from his waist; the wound, once puckered and red from healing, has split open along the seam put in by Bones and the regenerator. Swearing under his breath, Jim lets the shirt drop and presses his left hand against the wound, groaning at the sharp pain.

Resting a moment, he lets Spock and Bones cover him as he closes his eyes and leans against the desk. The good feeling he had before has vanished as everything he's been through in the last two days catches up with him; his forehead is dotted with sweat, and his head begins to swim. He'll have to face it all soon, but not now. Counting in his head, he goes at five, lunging for the hallway –

– and comes face to face with four reinforcements.

He hurls himself at them without thought, his phaser sending out red sparks. He hits one in the chest, then throws a punch at another, catching the man unaware and in the face. He goes down, dazed, as Jim lashes out at another with a straight kick that hits another's side. The Katashi throws a punch; Jim deflects it with his arm, then goes in with his left hand and hits the man's solar plexus. He falls, but not before the fourth gets in a hit to Jim's side.

Jim howls with pain, falling to one knee. Fire comes from behind, and the second one's getting up, blood pouring from a broken nose. Gasping, Jim manages to get back to his feet, and whirls, phaser up, ready to shoot.

Spock is the closest, taking on one of the Katashi from the main room that's moved in to the fray. Bones is close behind, his shots wide most of the time, but hitting their enemies in the arms and sides, taking them out with minimal effort. He smashes an elbow into a face, uses the phaser in his hand to pistol whip another.

"Get out of here!" Bones shouts, aiming at an oncoming Katashi. "We'll hold 'em off!"

He doesn't want to move. Doesn't want to leave Spock and Bones to fend for themselves. But leaving is the only choice he has – distracted by the others, Jim's clear to run down the hall and rescue the hostages, find out who's behind this and _why_.

With a reluctant nod, Jim hits the recharge on his phaser and ventures deeper into the unknown.

–

This time, when hailed, they answer.

Floating in the void of space off the stern is the gleaming gray saucer of the USS _Harris_, a smaller, but no less formidable, starship. Sulu's moved to the Captain's chair, the unofficial second officer, if only for a day; when the captain of the _Harris_ appears on the screen, he hopes this move will work in their favor.

"Where is your captain, Lieutenant?" The _Harris_' captain wastes no time with pleasantries, cutting into Sulu as soon as he appears on the viewscreen.

"Captain Kirk was injured during the negotiations and has been sequestered to sickbay by our chief medical officer until he is well enough for duty," Sulu reports smoothly.

The opposing captain frowns. "And Commander Spock? He is your first officer, no?"

"He was also injured during his time on Katash."

"And they put you in charge during their forced absence."

"Yes, sir."

"So, Lieutenant Sulu, care to inform me why you have been remiss to reply to multiple hails?"

He takes a deep breath and hopes, _prays_, Kirk gets out of this in one piece, because he's about to shoot himself in the foot. "Our communications officer was also injured, and in the chaos of their return, we overlooked certain stations."

"Let me get this straight. Your captain, first officer, and communications officer were injured during a supposed peaceful diplomatic mission and all three were declared unfit for duty by your medical officer. And while they were being tended to, you _overlooked_ certain stations?" The captain chuckles. "You, Lieutenant Sulu, may be the worst second officer I've ever encountered."

"Actually," Chekov breaks in, "Lt. Sulu is not our second officer. Keptin Kirk has yet to officially appoint one."

The captain frowns a bit, shaking his head. "I see. Kirk's been too busy to do so? Can't be bothered to follow the rules like the rest of us? Well, then, let me speak to your medical officer."

Sulu shifts in the chair that isn't his. "He is unavailable at the moment."

The captain seems to consider this for a moment, then leans forward, all trace of humor gone. "I'm sending over a team, Lieutenant Sulu. Prepare for their arrival. Until the proper chain of command can be re-established, they'll be taking over."

And he cuts the connection.

In an instant, Sulu's eyes are on Scotty, thankful the chief engineer decided to come see what was going on. "Scotty – "

"I'm on it," the engineer responds. "Chekov, you comin'?"

The young Russian jumps out of his chair and follows Scotty at a dead run for the transporter room.

They don't have much time.

–

Coming up on Lab 23, Jim takes out the single guard outside the locked door with a shot, and is in front of the access panel before the body hits the floor. His vision's become a tunnel of _what needs to be done_, everything on the edges fading away to the same black that surrounds him up in space. The words on the screen blur in and out of focus, and he wipes a hand across his forehead that feels more wet than he thought – holding it out in front of him, he notes the blood with detached fascination. No time for serious thought, now. Wiping his hand on his pants, he goes back to going through the layers of codes keeping the unauthorized out of the research lab. The element of surprise disappeared an hour ago, when the first group of Katashi killed Ensign O'Hara.

When the doors slide open, he's only halfway through getting in; his hand freezes in the air, blue eyes drawn to the open doorway and the man standing there.

"Captain Kirk," the mayor's assistant drawls, a smile planted firmly across his alien features, "I'm so glad you could finally join us."

–

Making it so someone can't beam in is much harder than figuring out how to transport someone transwarp across two planets. And this time, he doesn't have the assistance of an old Vulcan from the future to show him the formula he's supposed to create.

See, the problem is, they can work their fingers off blocking transmission to the transporter pad, but, as a stationary starship, the team from the _Harris_ can simply beam onto the ship anywhere. The rec room. The bridge. A section of engineering rarely patrolled. He has to make it so no one can beam in anywhere; create a blanket around the ship to keep them off.

Chekov works as fast as him, maybe faster, trying to scramble the signal – send them somewhere else when they try to get on board.

Neither man states the obvious: that once they finish – because Scotty knows they'll succeed – how will their away team get back on the ship?

–

Leonard McCoy hasn't gotten into many fights in his life.

Oh, sure, he's sparred verbally. The arguments with his ex-wife could be heard down the road, neighbors often whispering about the raised voices whenever he left for work in the morning, patients never asking about his home life after she came in and cut him down in the waiting room. For him, fighting with words comes easily.

Fighting with fists goes against his very nature.

He's always known he'd be a doctor. Heal people, take care of them. And while he failed at taking care of his family, he's very good at taking care of strangers.

So when his fist smashes into yet another face, his knuckles bloody and raw, he winces and shakes out his aching hand, mind going over all the bones in his hand he's fractured and bruised, the various injuries he's inflicted on these people in the name of defense. Later, when the dust has settled and Jim's brought those who started this to light, he'll treat the wounds he inflicted with detached efficiency.

Spock fights seamlessly, his movements taking adversaries down so efficiently, McCoy wonders if there's anything he doesn't do without that Vulcan perfection.

In a rare moment of silence, he grins across the gap at Spock. The Vulcan meets his eyes, and McCoy swears a corner of his mouth twitches up ever so slightly.

–

One of the Katashi grabs Jim's arm and roughly pulls him into the lab, gray door sliding shut with a hiss of finality. Inside, a group of a dozen scientists and support personnel are huddled in a group between two long lab tables, faces obscured by piles of clear equipment, tubes, and glass beakers. Larass is with them, off to the side, arms held by two Katashi and secured by another with a phaser pointed at the group, the threat clear.

The man holding Jim pushes him at the wall beside Larass; he stumbles a bit, feet twisting together like a unskilled dancer, and he uses a hand to keep from falling on his ass. Sluggish and aching, he's thankful for all those bar fights, the conditions that helped him to keep going even when bleeding on the floor.

The thought causes him to laugh, just a bit, at himself.

His new position allows a new view of the lab. Just inside the door is the slumped body of the mayor they met days ago, eyes closed, front covered in blood almost neon red. From this distance, Jim can't tell if the man's breathing or not, but he'd bet on not.

Anger flaring at the sight of the dead Katashi elder, he sets his glare on Di'ilk. "What, you came in here with your boss, wanted to talk with Commander Larass? When did you kill him, huh? Before or after he realized what you've done."

"And what, exactly, have I done, Captain?" he asks, turning attention from Larass to Jim. "You come down here, all bravado and thinking you know best, and where does it get you?" He pauses, stepping closer. "You are hanging on by a thread. Right now, another ship is entering the system, intent on boarding your vessel. Your companions are fighting a losing battle where you left them. And," – he's inches away, now, a hand pressing into his side – "you're dying right before our eyes."

Jim uses all his willpower to keep from wilting right in front of their eyes. His tunnel vision narrows until all he can see is this man before him, meeting his gaze and boring into it, trying to read what is written there.

They're locked there until the pressure the man's exuding on Jim's wound becomes too much, and with a rush of blood in his ears, his vision narrows until Di'ilk is a dying star bright in the night sky, brilliant until it burns out.


	7. Chapter 7

I have gotten some _amazing_ reviews – because of you, I'm posting even though I shouldn't be on the computer since I chipped the bone in my index finger and should be resting!

I'll respond to all of you as soon as it doesn't take me ten minutes to type a sentence! Just know that I love all you've said! Your support spurs me on as I write my next Star Trek adventure.

:D kira

**Chapter Seven.**

"Maybe the problem isn't to block their arrival," Chekov thinks aloud. He leans back from his terminal beside Scotty and looks to the transporter pad. "But to keep them from transmitting, yes?"

"We'd have to get into their computer system, and I'm pretty sure they'd detect that," scoffs Scotty. But there's validity in Chekov's argument, and maybe, just maybe, it could be possible. "How long do ya' think we got until their team's ready?"

"Minutes."

Scotty considers this. "Do it. I dunnea care how, kid, just get it done."

–

They bind the Katashi with cords they find around the desks, strips of fabric from spare clothing, and whatever else proves effective. The unconscious are gathered in an office, and after the door slides closed, Spock shoots out the lock panel with a shower of sparks. The dead, on the other hand, are left where they fell. The whole affair takes ten minutes, and that, combined with the exertion from battle, has both panting when they start for the hallway Jim disappeared down earlier.

"Do you think he got to 'em?" McCoy asks as they walk.

Spock considers this. "While I am sure the captain reached Commander Larass and the hostages, I am not entirely sure he will be able to do much in his current condition."

McCoy nods. He knows all too well what condition that is. And yet, he, the sarcastic, pessimist from Georgia, knows Jim got there all right, got there and is doing everything he can to free those being held.

–

A face is hovering inches from his, shining a bright light in his eyes. Jim bats it away, or at least attempts to; his arm doesn't listen, just lays there on the ground, unmoving. As consciousness returns, he groans and blinks back dried tears. Everything has gone blissfully numb, as if he's wrapped in a cocoon of warm blankets back in his childhood bedroom, all fears and pain forgotten in a fog of –

"What did you give me?" he mumbles. He knows this haze, this haze of drugs, and hates it. Has always hated it, ever since being diagnosed with a high sensitivity to concentrated medications.

"Just a general painkiller. We don't have much in here, just a few vials of mild drugs in the medkit."

That's a woman's voice, a soft, gentle, female voice floating above him. He reaches up to grasp it, his arm listening now that he's more awake, and his fingers brush soft hair. _So soft._

She laughs. "Thank you." And even though he realizes he'd spoken out loud, he can't be brought to care.

Another face comes into view. "We have isolated and treated the Kuhl'ti poisoning you contracted." Male. Stern.

"Huh?" is all Jim manages.

"Kuhl'ti poisoning," the woman clarifies. "It is a mineral found in the soil that poses a risk to non-native life forms. You must have gotten some in your wound and it spread to your bloodstream. Unfortunately, Starfleet scanners aren't programed to pick it up; I'm sure your medical officer treated it as an infection and thought he'd gotten it all."

Even half-awake, Jim's mind is faster than most. "I thought your research here was medical. Umm, cell growth?"

"Separating Kuhl'ti gives us two distinct elements not found on Earth. One of them, Zylo, has a generative effect on Earth lifeforms. That is what we gave you."

He takes this in. "Oh."

The woman – scientist – above him smiles sweetly. She's beautiful, even if she's not human, eyes warm and red, and he realizes she's Katashi, at least part, and can't hide his surprise. He thought this was us against them, and here's this woman straddling the middle.

Even in the blackness of space, dotted with the bright burning white stars, there's room for shades of gray.

His eyes slide to where Di'ilk stands talking to one of his men. "What is he here for?"

"Di'ilk? He wants us to leave."

Off to the side, the man scoffs. "Leave? He wants our research, that's all. We're expendable. Just like his people. How many has he killed just to convince us to come here?"

Laying on the floor of Lab 23, the motivation becomes clear. Why research the soil themselves when they could call in the Federation and have them do it for them? Not only do they save themselves the trouble, but by having the Federation conduct the research, the findings would be known, celebrated, and needed.

And now, armed with the research, the scientists who developed it dead, Jim himself blamed for the break down of peaceful relations with Katash, Di'ilk could demand whatever price he wished.

Pushing up on his elbows, Jim slowly makes his way back to his feet. "That's what this is all about, isn't it? You've killed your own people for _money_."

Di'ilk turns to him. "A worthy sacrifice for the future of my planet. Sometimes, you must cut back the branches for the health of the tree."

–

His fingers are moving quickly over the screen, typing as fast as he can, when the computer chirps in Scotty's ear.

"Intruders detected on engineering deck," she reports calmly.

"Oh, no they don't!" Scotty jumps out of his chair and is running down the hallway, pushing crew members out of the way as he heads for the nearest lift. There is no one on the _Enterprise_ who knows engineering better than him; he'll be damned if he lets them get out of there.

He jumpu into the lift and barks his destination; an overhead announcement calls for security to report to engineering. Just as the doors are about to slide closed, a hand slides in and stops them. Chekov's standing on the other side, and steps in quickly.

"I am sorry," he says as the lift hums to it's destination.

"Ah, donnea worry, Chekov. We knew it was a crap shoot when we started. Best forget about it an' move on."

Chekov nods, his shoulders squaring. "Yes, sir."

The lift stops. Both men look to the doors, waiting for them to open.

–

DOWNLOAD COMPLETE

Di'ilk smiles as the words flash in bright blue letters across the screen. A small disk pops out of an optical bay below the terminal, the shimmering material catching the light and reflecting into his face. Success. Placing the disk in a case, he slips it into his pocket, mind already shooting forward; this is not only a win for him, but for all the people of Katash, limited by their poor soil to native plants and foodstuffs, unable to grow their own hybrids or alien plants. When the Federation came, bearing seeds and promises, many felt the next era of Katashi prosperity was at hand.

How wrong they had been.

No matter. The money their cursed soil would bring in would allow them to import all the food they needed. Children would no longer go hungry. Farmers would not suffer. No. The disparity of his people would finally come to an end.

Only one more thing needs to be done. Calling over his lieutenant, a farmer now homeless due to dead crops, he tries not to let his joy show. "Kill them," he orders.

The man nods. With the remaining force – seven men eager to reap the rewards of this venture – the lieutenant turns on the huddled mass of scientists, the research team itself, and raises his gun.

"Wait a second," the starship captain says, stepping forward. "You don't need to do this."

His pleading is pathetic. Di'ilk pulls out his own small phaser and holds it out, ready to shoot this human, finger on the trigger –

– the metal burns red hot and falls out of his hand.

A Vulcan stands in the open doorway, green blood dripping down his face, a face holding emotions Di'ilk thought his species didn't posses.

–

The head of security seems to be waiting for Scotty to arrive, his team behind him, dark faces lit by the spaced lights in this, the belly of the ship. Despite their unconventional introduction, the man affectionately known as Cupcake to most of the crew has, as many of the ship's other members, come to admire and trust the captain. He has no hesitation in keeping the _Harris' _away team from taking over the ship until the captain's return, or even past then.

"I don't like visitors coming uninvited," he says when Scotty and Chekov walk out of the lift. "But for you, I'll make an exception." He flashes a smile that looks more like a grimace on his large features and motions for his men to stand down. Someone in the group hands the pair phasers, Chekov's hands shaking as he grasps the weapon. He's had training on this, but simulations aren't _real_. Living, breathing people – comrades in Starfleet. Turning the silver weapon over in his hands, he sets it to stun. Feels better, more comfortable.

"Computer says they've beamed in Section 18. Mind leading the way?" Cupcake asks.

"Sure enough," Scotty says. He takes the lead, the party diving deeper into the ship's heart, unsure of what they'll find.

–

Leaving Spock holding his phaser steady on Di'ilk, McCoy crosses the room to check on his friend. With his medkit somewhere behind them, there's little he can do; his examination must be short and by sight, sight which goes straight to the dark red stain on a normally impeccable gold tunic.

"Good God, man, what happened to you?" he demands. Jim doesn't smirk or crack a joke; his eyes are still on Di'ilk's phaser, and McCoy realizes it had been pointed at him. Placing a comforting hand on Jim's shoulder, he leads him away, back towards a secluded corner.

"That was close," breathes Jim. "God, Bones, he almost vaporized me."

"Well, I've always had great timing," comments McCoy. "Now, let's see what damage you've managed to do to yourself."

One of the scientists, a woman with the trademark red eyes of a Katashi, approaches. "We gave him the antidote for Kuhl'ti poisoning and a general painkiller," she tells McCoy.

"Kuhl'ti poisoning?" McCoy pauses in lifting Jim's shirt; the damn blood's dried, gluing the fabric to his skin. He curses under his breath and turns to the informative woman. "You got any water in this place?"

"Yes, sure," she remarks, noticing McCoy's predicament.

While she moves off to grab some water, McCoy looks back up at Jim, who's now wearing a dreamy look on his face. "Oh, no. No hitting on a hostage. We don't have time for your crappy pick up lines."

"They're not crappy, Bones. You'd know that if you'd use any of them," quips Jim.

"So, you want to tell me what the hell is going on?" Bones asks. His attention remains on the wound, hands venturing as far as they can go before ripping it open again. With a sigh, he looks up at Jim's face. "Well, whatever they did helped with the infection," he remarks, "but you're not gonna like how your body decided to react."

Jim groans.

"I should give you a note to pin on your shirt. 'Don't give me meds, I react badly.'"

"Not my fault. Listen, Bones, we've got to get these people to the ship. Can you do that?" The question's polite, but they both know the answer – it's in his tone, those sharp words, calm bravado.

"And what are you going to be doing?" McCoy asks, crossing his arms.

Jim mirrors the move, holding back a wince. "He's got all the research, man. And I don't think he's working alone; this is too organized to be the work of one assistant."

McCoy scoffs. "So, what? You're going to ask him nicely who his boss is?"

He gets raised eyebrows and a small smile.

"God damn, you're going to do exactly that. Do I have to remind you your charm doesn't work on everyone?"

"Works on you," he remarks lightly.

"That remains to be seen."

Despite his words, when the woman returns with a glass of water, McCoy uses the utmost care when peeling back Jim's shirt, more and more of the tightly woven fabric giving way, allowing the doctor a better look at what he's dealing with.

Inches away from his goal, things go to shit.

In the distance, a blast sounds so loudly, the shock waves knock glass to the floor, shattering into pieces. Di'ilk lunges for Spock with a roar, sidestepping the phaser blasts set to stun. Ceiling dust in their hair, McCoy and Jim turn to the doorway, where Spock has turned, ready to pursue.

"Get these people to the ship!" Jim shouts, grabbing the Vulcan's shoulder to make sure he can hear the order over the noise of continuing blasts. The building continues to shake, crumbling around them, and _this_ must have been the plan all along – bury the scientists with their research and blame someone else.

McCoy runs after Jim, grabbing a wrist just before he disappears through the door.

"You're a damn fool, James Tiberius Kirk!" he curses. "I want you in my sickbay when this is all over, _alive_, you hear me?"

Jim flashes a smile – _this is going to work _– and takes off after Di'ilk.

–

Five minutes in, Scotty feels cool metal pressed against the side of his head, stopping him in his tracks.

Cupcake turns and gets ready to fire when the rest of the intruding team appears, coming from different angles into the walkway. Reluctantly, the chief security officer drops his arm, face still, cross, angry.

"You're going to take us to the bridge, and we're going to figure this whole thing out," the man with the phaser to Scotty orders. "And then, you all are going to be court martialed for this fucking mess."

_Great_, thinks Scotty, _just when I escaped Delta Vega, they're gonna send me back._

He knew being here, on the _Enterprise_, was too good to be true.

Just as he's about to accept his fate, someone lets out a yell, and the phaser's knocked away. Come to think of it, the entire _guy_ is knocked away, landing on the floor in an unconscious heap. Standing above him is a victorious Chekov, still brandishing his own weapon, used to pistol whip the offending officer. Everything stops for a second, no one really believing what just happened.

"Thanks for visitin'," Scotty smiles. "Transporter room, six to beam the hell off our ship."

As the flabbergasted group becomes encircled in bright yellow and white, Scotty claps Chekov on the back and lets out a barking laugh.

"Where'd you come from?"

"I detected them a bit back," he answers, "and thought this was the best way to get them still enough for transport."

Scotty stops laughing, then gives the ensign a smirk. "Good job."

–

Sulu is on his way to the transporter room before the tech can finish reporting the incoming group.

He skids to a stop as the first group of rescued scientists fully materializes, and allows one of the techs to motion for them to clear the pad – it can only accommodate six at a time – giving room for the next group to arrive.

McCoy and Spock appear last, the pair sporting cuts and bruises under their ripped uniforms. While McCoy looks like he's going to be sick – his dislike of beaming infamous on the ship – Spock steps down and Sulu can tell his time in command is over.

"Report, Lieutenant."

"The _Harris_ sent an away team through engineering, but security was able to locate them so we could beam them out, thanks to the work of Scotty and Chekov."

"This ship is still in orbit with us?" asks Spock. He's amazingly calm under such a battered exterior, green blood painting his face, leaking from a gash above his eye.

"Yes. We don't – "

"We must assume the captain will be more aggressive -- "

"Speaking of that," Sulu cuts in unsuccessfully, "where is the captain?"

"-- considering you were able to forcefully send their away team off the ship."

"Commander Spock – "

The Vulcan pauses for a moment. "He is finishing what we started."

Sulu is about to ask what that means when Uhura's voice cracks through the air. "Sulu, you'd better get back up here. The _Harris_ has armed photons."

Klaxons keep time as Sulu and Spock run to the bridge.

–

The air is thick with the crumbling dust of the building falling around him, obscuring his vision and clogging his lungs. For the fourth time in as many minutes, Jim Kirk lets out a whooping cough, cursing the situation for giving away his position. But Di'ilk must have known he wouldn't let him go, would pursue him through the dying structure.

A blast rings out to his right, too close for comfort, and he absorbs the blow, falling against the wall, his ear ringing at a painful high pitch. He cups a hand over it, checking for blood – there is none, thank _God_. From experience, he knows his hearing will return in a few minutes, the ringing pitch never again being heard, bits of him dying as it continues with its siren's call.

Maneuvering slowly, _painfully_, around broken bits of wall and ceiling, he makes his way towards the entrance, the walls still standing showing the scars of a battle being fought here. Ahead, he spies a shape – it has to be Di'ilk – trying to find a way around the section of paneling that has fallen across the doorway.

Holding his breath, Jim rounds an upturned desk, secures his cover, and raises the phaser gripped in a sweaty palm. The poison may be clearing from his system, but there's more blood outside him then in, and a fever's got him so hot, he wishes he could climb out of his own skin.

Blinking is what tips the tables.

When his vision clears, Di'ilk is no longer in front of him. Bewildered, Jim looks around –

– a fist connects painfully with his nose.

"Nice hit," he mumbles.

"This is foolish, Captain," Di'ilk says. "You have rescued the scientists, saved the research in their minds. What does it matter if I escape?"

"You seriously want me to believe you're working alone, out of greed?" Jim laughs – a small voice in his head tells him to _hurry up!_ "No. This is bigger than just you and me, Di'ilk."

"You're right," the Katashi smiles. He runs at Jim, poise reminiscent of a martial arts fighter, "this is bigger than you'll ever know!"

He leaps in the air, coming down with his legs to clip Jim's left shoulder; Jim goes down to one knee, sweeps out a leg, and catches Di'ilk as he's landing. It throws Di'ilk off balance, sending him falling into one of the larger pieces littering the room.

The fall gives Jim the time he needs to get back to his feet. He sways for a moment, cursing his weak condition, but finds his footing and charges at Di'ilk. The Katashi is unprepared; Jim lands a blow to his head, twists out of the way of a return hit, and shoves a booted foot into the man's stomach. He tips back; Jim runs across the room for his fallen phaser, bending to scoop it up when a foot comes up to return the favor – the impact sends stars through Jim's vision, and it takes all his concentration to keep his hand wrapped around his weapon.

"Give up, Captain, and I'll spare your life."

Jim looks at him through hooded eyes. "Not a chance."

–

Spock takes the captain's chair with less certainty than the last time he was awarded the position during a time of crisis, and quickly takes in the situation through various viewscreens.

"Commander, what should we do?" Sulu asks, seated at his station.

The Vulcan risks a glance behind him to Uhura – his human side tries to send a message, _I am fine_ – then turns back to his helmsman.

"Recalculate orbit and adjust position."

"Sir?" Chekov voices.

"It is a chess game, Mr. Chekov. Sometimes, the smallest moves are the most important."

–

He wait. Waits for Di'ilk to get close enough. He wants to see what goes through the Katashi's eyes when he wins this, wants to see his victory reflected back at him.

Hand on the trigger of his phaser, Jim waits until Di'ilk is inches from him, hatred and anger twisting his face, to shoot.

The Katashi goes down in a heap of robes and failure.

Standing above him, Jim pants, gasping for air. Grabbing his communicator, he snaps it open with a beep.

"Kirk to _Enterprise_. Two to beam aboard."

He stands still, eyes on his foe. And yet, he doesn't feel that rush of satisfaction he was expecting.

Only emptiness.

–

"Commander, we're being hailed."

Spock nods. His tiny move could only delay them so long, the opposing captain's anger making his moves quick, future moves unconsidered. It is exactly the reaction Spock had been playing at, and he welcomes the hail by putting it up on the viewscreen.

"Ah, Commander Spock," seethes the _Harris_'s captain. "I see you have recovered from your injuries?"

"Captain."

"I don't know if you know this, but your choice for second officer was woefully wrong," the man bates, leaning forward in his chair. "Do Vulcans make mistakes?"

"You are assuming that the choice of second officer falls to me. It is, as you know, the captain's choice. I support his decision to give command of the _Enterprise_ to Mr. Sulu. My knowledge of the lieutenant's abilities supersedes your own, Captain, and thus, I am more readily equipped to make such a decision."

"Enough with the bullshit. Where's Kirk?"

"As first officer, I am authorized to act in his stead."

"Oh, yeah? Why don't you tell me why my chief of security's being treated for a concussion?"

Spock looks to Chekov, then returns his gaze to the screen. "I believe our security team was defending the _Enterprise_ from an intrusion. Is this not true?"

"You knew damn well we were coming aboard!"

"Then why did you beam to a secluded part of engineering instead of our transporter room?"

"Your damn crew blocked us."

A beep on the the captain's counsel draws his attention. It's from Uhura – _Kirk and prisoner beamed aboard. Heading for bridge._

"Perhaps it was a malfunction in your own system," Spock says diplomatically, waiting for the captain to arrive. "I apologize for the actions of our security team; we were acting with the ship's best interest."

The man's about to respond when the air lock swishes open and Kirk strides in, face the color of bleached desert, expression just as hard. He bypasses the raised platform and moves to stand directly in front of the viewscreen.

"Captain Martinez, what a surprise!" he grins – it comes out as a grimace, Spock observes, and signals for Doctor McCoy to report to the bridge. "What brings you out here?"

Martinez sputters, face reddening. "What brings me – do you think I _enjoyed_ changing my course and coming out here to look after you? Maybe if you'd answer hails, you'd know what the hell's going on! I'm to bring you and your ship _in,_ Captain Kirk. Failure to comply will result in hostile action."

"Who issued this order?"

"Admiral Chandra, of Starfleet High Command."

Kirk turns, eyes boring into Uhura. She seems to get it even though he doesn't say a word.

"Captain Martinez, I'm sorry for the inconvenience. I'm afraid there's been a mistake. I'll contact Admiral Chandra immediately."

He makes a small motion with his hand, and the screen switches back to a wide view of space, Katash looming red and green to the left, the _Harris_ a dot straight ahead. The tranquil view lasts only a second – it is replaced by Admiral Chandra himself, dressed in his formal uniform.

"Captain Kirk. Your failure to follow orders has – "

"I currently have twelve Federation scientists aboard my ship who narrowly avoided being buried by their own facility. I also have one conspirator in our brig. I ask you, Admiral Chandra, what orders did I ignore? Your orders to leave the planet alone, or the Starfleet charter that states we are to assist Federation citizens and members when in imminent danger?"

The speech takes the rest of Kirk's energy; he steps back and subtly leans on the front of Chekov's station, hands gripping it on either side with white knuckles.

Chandra considers this. "You have proof of this conspiracy?"

"Yes."

"And a member of it in custody?"

"Rotting in our brig as we speak."

The man nods. "Proceed to Starbase 47, Mr. Kirk. We _will_ get to the bottom of this. Starfleet does not enjoy being toyed with."

And he cuts the connection.

Kirk turns, arms held wide. "Thank you, everyone, for your admirable and outstanding performance."

And falls in a heap to the white deck.


	8. Chapter 8

I have to say, I've been writing and posting fanfiction for about 8 years now, and the reviews I've gotten here for this fic have been some of the most nourishing and helpful I've ever received, especially over the last five days, when things haven't been very bright. So thank you ever so much. I've decided to reply after this chapter so I can write big, long, gushing letters.

And to those reading but not reviewing, thank you for doing so anyway. God knows I'm a terrible reviewer myself. ;)

So this is it – the end. Though I've already gotten requests for a sequel of sorts, it'll have to wait, as I already have embarked on my next fanfic-writing adventure in this wonderfully shiny fandom.

**Chapter Eight.**

Spock commands, sets them on course for Starbase 47, reads over section reports for the entire incident, and writes his own. Nyota goes to his quarters as soon as McCoy releases him, his face stitched together, bandaged, more lurking under the crisp blue uniform tunic. She cares for him, actually brews him some Vulcan tea and pretends to enjoy it with him. If she weren't exceptional at xenolinguistics, Nyota would make an amazing diplomat.

He appreciates it, sips the tea, lets her dote all over him. The manner, entirely human, reminds him of being sick as a child, when his mother would hover and care and tuck him in. The comparison doesn't go farther than that, though, because she cares for him in other ways when the ship switches to night mode.

They've both been looked over by the rescued scientists, treated, poked and prodded as the only other patient has been still for days. Spock enjoys the exchange, mining for information; Nyota keeps a stiff upper lip and does her duty.

Four hours out from Starbase 47, they get a directive to proceed to Earth. The change is completely understandable, and tacks another eighteen hours onto their trip, if they proceed at maximum warp. He checks in with Doctor McCoy before going down to warp three, giving them a couple days to mend and speak and figure out what will be in the official report.

When he's fully recovered, Nyota sits at the end of his bed, uncharacteristically shy, eyes on her folded hands. "Spock," she finally speaks up. "We need to talk."

PADDs litter the small desk afforded his quarters, and he places one on the surface before turning to her.

"I am...enjoying our relationship, but, when we get back – "

He holds up a hand, stopping her. "The situation was inevitable, Nyota. If you would look at it logically, you would realize that one being providing cover in such a small area would have roughly a 25% chance of failure when not distracted. Thus, whatever occurred was not the fault of...this."

She nods, and goes back to being the strong, intelligent woman who caught his eye so long ago. "Thank you."

–

A day out from Earth, Spock graces the medbay with his presence.

His arrival interrupts a good game of cards McCoy has going with a few nursing techs, the enlisted crew scrambling to appear productive in front of the ship's first officer, ignoring McCoy's protests. When they've scuttled away, McCoy shoves the cards into a drawer and leaves his office to meet Spock.

"Spock," he drawls, "what a pleasant surprise. I don't really have anything to report. No change from yesterday, everything's going well."

"If this is an attempt to dissuade me from my request, it is not working."

"Your _request_?"

"You have kept the captain under sedation since he collapsed, but I believed his recovery, while nowhere near complete, would have him awake by now."

"Oh," breathes McCoy, crossing his arms, "you want me to wake him up, is that it? What happened to deferring to my medical opinion?"

"While I am more than capable of running this ship, there are several matters needing attending to. I can, however, supervise his movements, if that is a requirement you insist upon."

McCoy lets out a laugh. "It's not you I'm worried about."

Spock frowns, not comprehending. McCoy sighs; he knew it'd come to this. While _he_ knows Jim's tendencies, the rest of the crew – including the senior bridge crew – have only inklings, flashes into the heart of what makes up Jim Kirk. The sedation, while forced and not medically necessary, is all that is keeping Jim from getting up, pushing himself before he's ready, doing more damage.

"Doctor," Spock says after a moment. "I understand your concern. Our time on Katash gave me new insight into the captain's psyche. However, I must insist."

McCoy knows Starfleet Regulations as well as Spock, at least when it applies to medical issues. And while he'd love to tell Spock to shove it, he can't. He knows it. Conceding feels hollow, and he steps aside, turning his back on Spock as he moves to Jim's side and adjusts a few numbers on the large screen above the bed monitoring his vital signs.

"Ten minutes," McCoy tells Spock. "Then again, who knows? This is Jim Kirk we're talking about."

–

Four hours after he floated to the surface, the world changing from distorted waves to that sudden, breathtaking _awareness_ he'd been missing, Bones clears him to move around – accompanied, of course.

If they think he didn't dream, they're wrong; Jim's mind was filled with what if scenarios. Ever since he learned of the alternate reality – that _he_ is the deviation from the original time line – his dreams have been like those Choose Your Own Adventure books he found on disk at the school library, where he is the character on the page, navigating through a pre-destined life only to suddenly be caught in an avalanche.

Swept away by the current of snow, the threat of death a constant pressure on his back.

Captaining is no different. He has to think five choices ahead, consider all the options, the consequences. For once, he's thankful Sam taught him chess when they were bored during the summer when Jim was eight, the board and pieces easy to carry to the river on the rear of their property, balanced easily on high boulders.

When he's ready to move around, dressed down in an undershirt and pants – he doesn't miss the irony each time he's off duty, if only technically – Bones hovers at his side, monitoring his vitals every five seconds. Spock easily matches Jim's shortened, slower stride, as they move through the ship to the brig, a hallway of highly secured rooms of bright, blinding, hyper-hospital white.

"Has anyone talked to him?" asks Jim. Guards move aside, stand at attention against the wall, allowing the trio to pass.

"Not since you brought him aboard," Spock answers.

Jim attempts a smile, but it doesn't rise to his eyes. They remain a dull blue, an Earth sky through smog, tired and worn at the edges. "Good. I want the first crack at him."

"As is your prerogative as captain."

He doesn't need to be reminded.

Seated inside his cell, Di'ilk is rumpled and bruised, clothing in the same condition as when Jim knocked him out and beamed him aboard. At the sight of the captain, the Katashi leaps to his feet and rushes as close to the force-field as he can without getting zapped. In anger, his red eyes are the color of blood, the whites crowded by bursting veins.

"_You_," he seethes. "As a Federation citizen, I demand – "

"You're exactly where you belong, Di'ilk," Jim quickly interrupts. "As captain of this vessel, I am officially placing you under arrest for conspiracy against the Federation, possession of stolen codes, attempted murder of twelve Federation scientists, as well as myself. Do you have anything to say?"

Di'ilk remains silent.

"While you originally were to be transported to Starbase 47, pursuant to regulation requiring residents of a quadrant to be remanded to custody at the nearest Starfleet installation, Starfleet Command has requested that you be transported back to Earth for trial."

"Trial?" scoffs the alien. "You think this will get that far? I've been a diplomat my entire life, _Captain_. I know how the system works. Yes, I will be punished, but it won't change anything."

"You admit to working in tandem with another?" Spock inquires.

The answer is laughter, deep and throaty. Anger dissolved, Di'ilk retreats into his cell, returning to his cot. "There is always another. No one is alone in this universe, Vulcan. As soon as you take out one, another rises in their place."

–

To McCoy's immense satisfaction, Jim spends the rest of their time to Earth in his quarters.

An hour out, Spock pushes to maximum warp, sending McCoy to wake the captain and make sure he's in well enough shape for a meeting with Admiral Chandra, in person, immediately upon arrival.

He's been worried, sure. Ever since Spock and Uhura beamed aboard with a half-dead and bleeding Jim held awkwardly between them, McCoy's been on-edge, nerves tight, wanting to grab that bottle of bourbon in his bottom drawer to calm the hell down. No one's worried him like this in a long time; for a second, he realizes this is how he'd feel if Joanna was hurt, and that pull towards a drink becomes stronger, but he pushes it away.

Instead, he's standing at the door to Jim's quarters, hitting the chime. The computer comes back, in that cool, detached, yet beautiful female voice – _where'd they find _her? – that the occupant has requested not to be disturbed unless it is an emergency, and McCoy enters his medical override.

They slide open.

Inside, the air is cool and dark, the only illumination streaking stars outside the observation window over the bed. The light they cast on the sleeping figure only works to bleach out his skin even more; Jim's a ghost in this big metal tin can touring the stars, a figment born from the very void they're working to explore.

"Could ya stop watching me sleep? It's creepin' me out," calls a mumbled voice from the bed. Jim shifts and groans, throwing an arm over his eyes. "What do you want, anyway?"

"Well, we're about to reach Earth, and you have a date with an admiral," Bones answers, rounding the bed. He sits on the side and pulls out his scanner, eyes finally adjusted to the low light.

Jim rolls his eyes, but doesn't push the device away this time.

"Great. You've finally grasped the importance of letting me do my damn job. If only you'd figured that out a few days ago, we might have avoided this whole mess."

"Left Katash like we were ordered to, and let all those scientists die?"

McCoy tucks the scanner away. "When you put it that way," he starts, but doesn't finish.

"How much time do I have?" Jim asks, pushing up onto his elbows. The move pulls a bit, and his face shows discomfort, but it's nowhere near what he experienced on the planet. His voice is still rough with sleep – and thank God for small miracles that he slept at _all_ – movements sluggish.

"If you're not feeling up to it, I can always tell the admiral to screw off."

His friend shakes his head. "Naw. Better to get this over with sooner than later." He pauses, thinking, and scratches the side of his neck. "This isn't something we should let wait. And who the hell told Spock to take so damn long getting here? You know the shit I'm gonna get for locking that guy up that long before formally arresting him?"

"And who's fault is that?"

Jim narrows his eyes. "I was kinda busy at the time."

"And anyway, Spock was technically in command, seeing as that I medically relieved you the second you collapsed _on the bridge_."

Scooting up to sit properly, Jim stretches his arms above his head as far as is comfortable, and yawns, jaw popping. "Really? Huh. Word is, you kept me _sedated_ longer than necessary."

"Depends on who says what is necessary."

"Don't do it again," Jim says, pointing at him. "That's an order, okay? You lay the cards out, I'll listen to you."

"Sure you will."

"I slept, didn't I?"

The doctor laughs. "There's a first time for everything, Jim."

Jim joins in the laughter for a moment, the joy turning into a coughing fit as dust still in his lungs still works it's way out. His torso shutters, tears threatening to leak from his eyes, and when he's finished, his eyes slide up to meet McCoy's, vulnerable.

For all the times he's wanted the kid to let his mask slip, he regrets it as soon as he takes in everything written under the surface. There's too much, too much for all at once, and it frightens him a bit.

How can someone so young have so much written there?

They sit, locked like that, for half a minute, McCoy not wanting to be the one to break contact. He takes it for what it is – trust, thanks, and a new understanding between friends. Then Jim swings his feet over the side of the bed, now sitting next to McCoy, and claps him on the shoulder before almost shoving him off the bed.

"How's that rash treating you?" the doctor asks, smirking as he gathers himself up from the floor.

Jim glares. "I've gotta get ready."

Making his way to the door, McCoy grumbles, "Nothing I haven't seen, you know."

"Let a man keep some degree of dignity!"

"You have some left?"

The doors slide shut, leaving McCoy in the vacuum of an empty hallway.

–

Admiral Chandra is not nearly as imposing in person as on the viewscreen, though that may have to do with being larger-than-life when projected on a floor-to-ceiling screen. His office holds vestiges of past travels, statues and baskets and odd objects Jim can't even _begin_ to name. He wonders if this is his future, sitting behind a desk, treasures from a richer past surrounding him?

God, that fate sounds worse than Iowa.

Wearing his dress uniform, Jim stands at attention just inside the admiral's door, arms attached to his sides, chin up, waiting for the older man to say something. Just _being here_ feels odd, and it isn't having to adjust to real gravity, opposed to the artificial force he's grown used to on the ship. Chandra's still attached to the Academy, and his window overlooks the green campus near the bay; it reminds Jim of his time there, of how it ended, of how close he was to losing it all.

"Captain, please, take a seat," Chandra finally speaks.

"Thank you, sir." He eases himself into the chair, trying not to let his fatigue show.

"On behalf of the Federation, I want to thank you for uncovering this deception and bringing the perpetrator here to Earth," he says.

_Say thank you and get out of here_, Jim thinks. But if he ever listened to that voice in his head, he would have driven away from the Riverside Shipyard instead of towards, or never considered it at all. "I'm sorry, did you say perpetrator? As in singular? Sir, forgive me for saying so, but I don't believe he's working alone."

"And I will take that into consideration, Captain," Chandra continues.

"Consideration?" Jim speaks up. "Sir, you need to get to the bottom of this. The people Di'ilk is working with were willing to not only destroy a Federation scientific facility, but sacrifice the Katashi people in order to reach their ultimate goal. Isn't it our responsibility to _protect_ these people?"

"Not if it is an internal matter."

It takes all Jim's self-control to keep from launching from his chair and shoving the admiral into the wall. "An internal matter?"

"Federation interests were represented and defended, quite admirably, I must add, by you and your crew – even if these actions _were_ against orders," Chandra continues. "Now, any threat against the Katashi people by their own government is not our place. We keep the peace between planets, Captain Kirk, not on them. Their internal matters are their own."

Squelching his anger, Jim's voice is tight when he speaks. "You cannot believe these actions were conducted by the Katashi themselves. We have the testimony of Commander Larass stating he acted – "

"Commander Larass was acting out of duress. Incorrectly, yes, but not as a representative of the Federation, only of himself."

Jim continues despite the interruption. "Di'ilk _himself_ admitted – "

"Did he say who? Or did he allude, Kirk?" Chandra shakes his head. "It is a very fine distinction, but one we must observe. Whatever Di'ilk may or may not have said before his formal arrest – an arrest that could have come sooner – cannot be entered into the record other than through your testimony. What _exactly_ can you specify? That he _taunted_ you?"

"Nothing, sir," Jim says with clipped words, clenched teeth.

"The research rescued from Di'ilk's person will be turned over to Starfleet Medical for further development. And the scientific team you rescued will be continuing their work with them. The facility has been evacuated and all Federation interests removed. Nothing overall was lost, and you uncovered a plot against us. You should be proud, Captain; not many have ever achieved so much, especially in their first year."

A chime sounds on the computer off to the left. Their time is over; Chandra isn't speaking any more on this subject, no matter how much Jim wishes they could. Why is it whenever he _knows_, deep down, what is right, it get buried by politics and orders and all this command bullshit?

"Thank you, sir," Jim manages out before standing, turning on a heel, and leaving the room. Outside the door, he turns and slams a fist into the wall, leaving a dent that causes the secretary to squeak and clasp her hands over her mouth. He gives her a dashing smile as he leaves the outer office and emerges into the natural traffic of Starfleet Headquarters.

–

They sit, collected on the social deck, that bottle from Bone's desk sitting in the center of the table. Jim and Bones and Uhura, with a promise from Scotty to arrive as soon as he finishes some more unscheduled upgrades, the engineer busy with parts obtained during their stay around Earth.

Bones is expected, Uhura is not. Jim doesn't know why she decided to join them, but welcomes her addition to their nightly gathering, this decompression time among friends. Then again, he doesn't know when he started paring up _friend_ with _Uhura. _She's welcome, though, with her silky black hair trailing loose down her back and attitude to try anything Scotty throws at them at least once.

When she arrives, Bones has already had two shots, Jim three. As he downs another, she frowns; ever since they embarked on this journey, he's never had more than a beer or two, wanting to be prepared and sober enough if something requires his attention. This, she notes, is a deviation, just the one she herself needs.

As Jim downs his fourth shot, Bones rests a hand on his arm, his free one grabbing the shot class and sliding it across the table to Uhura. "Jim, maybe that's enough."

"C'mon, Bones, I can handle it. What's going to happen out here?" he remarks, motioning to the floor to ceiling windows at his right. "We're close to Earth and about five other ships. Let them handle it."

Uhura frowns halfway through pouring her own shot. "What happened with the admiral?"

A note, a promise_; I'll do what I can to help._ But that isn't the admiral she's talking about.

"I'll tell you what happened – bureaucracy. This whole thing," Jim shakes his head. "It all was a waste of our time. The people on Katash are still going to suffer and whoever Di'ilk was working for – " Uhura's smile and small pearl of laughter cut him off mid-rant, his expression darkening. "Is this _funny_ to you, Lt. Uhura?"

"No, of course not, _Captain_. The suffering of the Katashi people is unfortunate, and I feel for them. But this is how the system works. You'd know that if you didn't sleep through Law & Ethics every week."

"_Unfortunate_?"

She feels for him; all that raw passion and need to do what's _right_ no matter what the cost. Sitting there, reading his face, the way he uses his words, the varying tone, Uhura sees that, most of the time, the cost is paid by Jim himself.

"Yes, Jim. Unfortunate. The Federation keeps the peace between worlds, but we can't go in and impose our values on every planet just because _we_ feel it's right." When he opens his mouth to reply, she holds up a hand. "We can, however, make sure to monitor any transmissions coming from the planet, and keep tabs on supply ships. Just because we're not allowed to directly help, it doesn't mean we can't in our own way."

Jim smirks. "Why, Uhura, are you suggesting we bend the rules?"

"In some circumstances, it can be the right thing. But don't expect me to start agreeing with all your insane ideas," she adds quickly.

"Insane is putting it lightly," grumbles Bones. "I don't think a word exists for the idiocy of this guy." He jerks a thumb in Jim's direction.

"Hey! I get the job done. Is it my fault everyone doubts me?" smiles Jim.

"I wouldn't say that," Uhura comments softly.

"You can be persuasive, at times," adds Bones.

Jim considers this, motioning for the tending server to bring over a Bud Classic. By the time Scotty arrives, the three of them are knee deep in one of Jim's more humorous adventures, tears streaking Uhura's face, she's laughing so hard. Scotty slides into an empty chair and pours some of the newest stuff into a few glasses; Jim refuses, opting to suck on his beer.

Outside, the stars sparkle, shinning beacons leading them toward the future.


End file.
